


Biker AU: After Dark

by Jubalii



Series: Coco DustDevils!AU (Biker AU) [3]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Biker AU, DustDevils!AU, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Finally- They're All In One Place, Gen, More Pairings & Tags Added As Needed, NSFW oneshots, Not Rated E For Everyone :3, Various Positions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-09-27 09:47:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17159762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: A collection of all the NSFW oneshots and spin-offs from the DustDevils!AU.





	1. The Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor gets home from his tour sooner than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in an effort to streamline all my biker!au NSFW oneshots, I'm going to be editing and reposting them to this oneshot collection. There'll be more things added, and some grammar edits, so if you're interested in taking a revised trip down memory lane, I'm not going to be the one to stop you ;) 
> 
> The first few chapters won't be new to anyone who's read the old NSFW oneshots, or the 30 Day NSFW Challenge. But rest assured, there will be new ones added as their time comes in the story! I hope everyone looks forward to it.

_¿Estás despierta?_  

“Nngh….” Imelda pressed her face into the pillow, cursing under her breath. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know that it was too early to wake up. She pressed her palm to one eyelid, the pressure easing the dull ache behind her forehead. Squinting through her fingers, she blinked at the blurred numbers on the bedside clock until they made sense: 3:57 am.

Groaning, she burrowed her nose deeper into the pillow, trying to catch the remnants of her dreamless sleep before they left her entirely. The lamp on the dresser was still on, the bedroom shrouded in a drowsy half-darkness. She knew she needed to get up and turn it off, but the thought of getting out of bed was proving to be too much. It could wait until she rose to start breakfast. Right now the most important thing was  _sleep_ : two more hours’ worth, at least.

She shifted on the bed, frowning at the scratchy embroidery on the quilt beneath her bare legs. She’d fallen asleep on top of the bedclothes, the summer night too hot to bother with sheets and a blanket. Even with her summer pajamas—really nothing more than a cotton tank and a pair of shorts too tight to be modest—the bedroom was stifling. The fan moved the air around instead of cooling it; the space where she’d been sleeping was a pool of leftover body heat. Even her pillow was warm, hair dampened with sweat. It stuck in thick tendrils to the back of her neck, trapping the heat against her skin.

She shoved one arm beneath the pillow, sighing in relief at the feeling of the cool, soft fabric against the crook of her elbow. The rest of her body felt like she was wrapped in flannel from head to foot, but at least  _one_ arm could be cool. It didn’t last long, her arm soaking in the freshness like a sponge and leaving heat behind. She shifted back, her feet finding purchase on the quilt as she scooted towards the center of the bed, searching for a fresh oasis.

A hand snaked around her waist, fingertips tapping along the hem of her tank before sliding beneath it. She paused, her mind working at half-speed; it gave the hand enough time to draw her against what felt like a wall of pure heat. It was a tiny inferno against her navel, fingers stroking the soft rise of her stomach above the elastic of her shorts. She shoved at the intrusion sleepily, trying to distance herself from the furnace breathing down her spine. 

“No, Héctor.” She groped for his wrist, her eyes firmly shut. “It’s too hot.” The last thing she wanted right now was to cuddle up with a man whose core body heat could melt steel. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him; she just couldn’t sleep while being smothered by a bony, snoring, sweaty mess.

Placating hands swept the hair from her neck, soothing her fevered skin. She hummed in contentment, relishing the night air with a sigh. Sandwiching the pillow between her cheek and her arm, she snuggled into the feathery down and tried to fall back into a doze. One finger traced her hairline, the nail drawing a path along the frizzy, curled edges until it met her ear. She squirmed, ticklish, and tried to deter him with her shoulder.

“Héctor,” she grumbled, shivering as goosebumps raised the hair on her arms. “Can’t you let me sleep? I’m tired.” A warm chuckle ghosted over her shoulder, lips brushing her nape as the hand returned to her waist. Again it slipped beneath the purple cloth, thumb following her lowest rib as it worked across her diaphragm.

“It’s 4:00, dummy…” she mumbled, too tired to take any real action against him. It wasn’t her fault if he worked himself up, only to be disappointed when she fell asleep. Then again, let him try to complain; he had two hands and an imagination, didn’t he? As long as he cleaned up after himself and kept quiet, she couldn’t care less what he did next to her. Long fingers dipped beneath the elastic of her shorts, snapping the waistband lightly. “Can’t you wait—”

Her eyes flew open, fear snapping the lids like an electric spark. He’d said that to her earlier over the phone, hadn’t he? _You’ll only have to wait one more day. I’m sorry, Imelda—really I am—_ Héctor couldn’t be here, in her bed. Héctor was on tour with Ernesto. He’d been on tour for the past six weeks, singing his way up the coast with a trailing crowd of devoted fans.

He wasn’t going to come home until tomorrow afternoon; now that she was awake, she remembered too easily. In fact, he was going to be _late_ ; he’d called her from his dressing room yesterday evening, right before she’d gone to bed. She’d barely been able to say hello before his pleading began, begging forgiveness before she could find out what he’d supposedly done wrong.

“The final show’s been delayed, ‘Melda.” She’d been able to hear Ernesto arguing in the background, his ‘business voice’ a grating hiss that punctuated every second or third word. “The wiring’s bad, and they won’t let anyone play until they can get an electrician to look at it; something about lawsuits, I don’t know… and the venue’s sold out, we can’t refund all those tickets, not now—”

Normally, that wouldn’t have been any sort of problem. But this was their last show, their grand finale, wrapping up the six-week tour and waving a hearty farewell until the next year. They’d crammed this schedule as full as possible, and the single delay had completely thrown them off. Héctor had promised her years ago that he’d never stay away from home longer than six weeks; to stay overnight would be to break that promise, something that shamed her honest husband to the core.   

“I can handle Ernesto, if I have to. He’ll be mad, but he’ll get over it—he always does…. What I mean is, if you want me home tomorrow, don’t be afraid to say it; I’ll do what I have to, _mi amor_ , I’ll even hitchhike—”

“It’s fine, Héctor. One more night isn’t going to matter to me, I promise.” When he’d made that promise, she’d meant it literally: no longer than six weeks. But that was years ago; she had been young, still a child, with no understanding of what it meant to trust her partner. They’d _both_ matured since then… wasn’t his phone call living proof? She knew he was aware of his own limits, and trusted him to make it back home in one piece, with his friend and her vehicle in tow. “You’re right, there’s no reason to refund all those tickets when it’s not even your fault the show was delayed. Stay an extra night and have fun. We’ll see you this weekend.”

That was the last time she’d talked to him, his soft _te amo_ following her into sleep. He’d had his show tonight, and was probably passed out in a cheap motel bed, still in his stage clothes. Or, more likely, he was still the club, laughing it up with his best friend and toasting a successful end to yet another De la Cruz/Rivera partnership tour. But if this wasn’t Héctor in her bed, then… _who_ was it?!

Her mind, fully alert now, ran through every absurd option, finally reaching the plausible and settling on a catch-all term: _pervertido_. She rankled, even as the logical side of her brain poked hole after gaping hole in her conclusion. _Who_ would choose her bed from all the ones in Santa Cecilia? And furthermore, _why_ were they just crawling into people’s beds in the first place? Even the most lowdown of bandits had some kind of honor system, didn’t they?

And _how_ did they get in without waking anyone? The doors were bolted, the windows locked. No one else was awake… unless the person in bed with her had already taken care of them, and they were dead in their beds and— _This isn’t TV._ The fact remained that someone was in her bedroom, in her bed, with their grimy hand on her bare skin beneath her shirt. The most logical answer was Héctor, since the body behind her was too large to be Coco’s, and her brothers would have said something long before now.

Imelda suddenly understood the plight of horror movie victims, knowing that potential danger lurked right behind her and yet… she had to be the one to summon the courage to face it. She hissed a shaky breath, trying to find the will to scream. Oscar and Felipe were in the next room, Coco down the hall. If it _was_ an actual intruder, would she have the gumption to shout? Would it even do any good? What would she say to make them run, escape, instead of coming to her aid?

No, this was something—someone—that she had to deal with alone. But she _couldn’t_ : despite her mind’s frantic orders, her body was frozen against the quilt. Only her heart moved, thumping a wild rhythm against her ribcage as the icy chill settled in her chest. The fingers on her stomach twitched, enough of a catalyst to rouse her from her fear.

She sprang to life, scrambling for the edge of the bed and quickly forming a rudimentary plan of attack. The world seemed both too fast and too slow, a pillow in her hands without any knowledge of how it came to be there. First the pillow, as a distraction. Then the lamp, she could easily mend any damage to the wall when she yanked it out by the cord, and—

The corner of her eye caught a glimpse of dusky pink, the studded outer edge of familiar charro pants. That alone was enough to stop her, mind grinding to a halt even as she rankled with adrenaline-fueled anger.

“¡ _Cabrón_!” Her stomach dropped to her ankles, relief coursing through her veins as her grip on the pillow loosened, then tightened again with growing rage. Did he really think such a trick like that was _funny_?! Apparently he did; she slammed the pillow down, hiding the teasing that mocked her from the other side of the bed. “¡ _Tonto_! Go. To.  _Hell_!” Every word was enunciated with a smack of the pillow, an unwelcome heat spreading from the tips of her ears towards her chest.

The loneliness of six long weeks was barely enough to keep him safe from her wrath. Otherwise, she might have considered committing murder when she heard him laughing between impacts. There was a high, comical edge to the sound, a slurring wheeze that redoubled her flush. He wasn’t just being a jerk—he was _drunk_.

“Hey, hey, hey!” He caught the pillow when she brought it down yet again, tossing it carelessly onto the bed beside him. “Keep it down, ‘Melda. You’ll wake up the whole house, haha.” He was still in his charro suit, the white shirt rumpled beneath a creased jacket. The elaborate tie dangling from either side of his neck, kinked where the knot had been. He’d at least had the courtesy of taking off his shoes before climbing into bed, one toe sticking out of a hole in his left sock.

“Do you think that was funny, Héctor?!” she spat, arms crossed. He gazed up innocently at her, a pronounced twinkle in his eye. Oh, he was definitely drunk— _really_ drunk, judging by the size of his lazy grin. “It wasn’t, at all. You scared me half to death; what were you thinking?!” The grin wavered, long eyelashes blinking the stars from his eyes as he tried to process her anger.

“You were just so pretty, asleep… I guess I wasn’t,” he admitted, lips pursing in a pout. Even bedraggled from his trip, the effect was still cute; she pushed aside the thought, focusing on getting to the bottom of just _why_ he thought it would be okay to frighten her out of her wits at four a.m.

“Did Ernesto put you up to this?” That was Ernesto’s kind of sick humor, getting a laugh at her expense. He was a reckless fool, but even Ernesto was competent enough to know better than to drive under the influence. He wouldn’t have drunk as much as Héctor, but he’d find no qualms with filling a tipsy mind full of bad ideas. She could almost hear him in the hallway, or sprawled on the sofa in the living room, rolling with laughter.

“Nah.” He struggled to sit up, scrubbing his face with both palms as he tried to match her seriousness. “Nesto went home. We couldn’t find a hotel, so we got mad and went to a bar. And then he drove us home anyway. He was _tired_ , but I’m not.” He settled with reclining on one elbow, bushy brows rising in what she assumed was a sexy smirk. “So… how much did you miss me?”

“Right now? None at all.” She curled up on her side, facing pointedly towards the nightstand and ignoring his sputtering whine. “I’m going back to bed, Héctor. We’ll talk more in the morning.” She was resolved to stew in her anger, at least until she fell asleep. He played a rude practical joke, and then thought bedroom eyes would fix the whole mess? _As if!_

“What?” His hand landed on her shoulder, trying to gently turn on her onto her back. She shook him off, slapping his fingers when he tried again. “Imelda? I thought you’d be happy to see me….” She didn’t answer; she was too tired, and morning was too close. Knowing her luck, he’d forget the lecture by sunrise anyway.  

“I’m sleeping, Héctor.” The rebuke was enough to silence him, and for a moment she thought she’d actually made headway. However, he proved her wrong the minute she began to doze back off, his chin digging into her shoulder as his body curled around hers in a renewed, extra-stuffy embrace. “What part of _I’m sleeping_ don’t you get?” she snapped, burying her face in the pillow. If she had to choose between that and looking at him, she’d rather smother.

 “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he crooned, breath hot against her neck. She pressed her lips together, fighting the impulse to get the last word in. Maybe if she stayed quiet, he really would get the message? “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Her jaw clenched as she felt him nibbling along the shell of her ear, eyes screwed shut against the pleasantly ticklish sensation. “I’ll even do that little thing you like,” he sang, voice lowering to a soft, slurring growl.

 _That’s enough!_ She twisted in his arms, hoping he didn’t see how red her cheeks were as she lunged for him. She snagged his chin, fingers squeezing just enough to purse his lips, silencing him completely. His brow furrowed, cheeks puffing as he waited for her to let go.

“Let’s get one thing straight: just because I accept your apology doesn’t mean you get your way. You are drunk, you are crazy, and you are definitely out of line. It’s too early for sex, I don’t feel like getting undressed, and you know what? You’re giving me a _headache_. Now,” she continued, not giving him time to either protest or argue, “ _goodnight_ , Héctor.”

“It doesn’t have to be sex.” Imelda rolled her eyes, glaring at him until his face fell. “I mean it, it doesn’t! I mean… if you _wanted_ to have sex, I’m not going to say no right now, but….” He faltered, fidgeting under her harsh expression. “I just want to be close to you, that’s all. I mean—it’s been nearly two months, ‘Melda. I missed you.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you made me angry. Now, again: goodnight, Héctor.” She rolled onto her back, limbs spread to catch as much fresh air as possible. The fan might not have helped much, and it was easier to be angry as a little ball, but the heat wouldn’t allow her to stay that way for long.

She heard him sigh, the bed creaking, and barely cracked one eye to see him watching her with the same forlorn pout from earlier. He looked more like a sad little boy than a grown man, with his hair falling into his eyes and limbs drawn up at odd angles to his torso. He could have been the same young man she’d fallen in love with nearly fifteen years ago, had it not been for the unshaven stubble on his jaw, or the laugh lines slowly creasing into his skin.  

“I-mel-di-ta-a-a-a.” He plucked at her tank, head sagging onto his shoulders as he pleaded his case. She deftly shut her eyes, only to have them fly open with an _oomph_ of air as a lead weight collapsed onto her chest. Blinking stupidly into his smiling face, she scowled when she found herself pinned by his body so that she had no choice but to pay him the attention he craved. “I’m _lonely-y-y-y._ ”

“And I’m tired-d-d,” she drawled back, shoving uselessly at his shoulders before collapsing against the quilt with a grunt. Her nostrils flared, a muted breath escaping as her lungs tried to expand beneath his weight. “So are you,” she pointed out, looking at the thin, sickly pallor of his face. His eyes were bloodshot, lined with dark bags. The telltale signs of stress and exhaustion were easily visible at the corners of his mouth. Even if he didn’t like admitting it, being on tour took a lot out of him.

“I’m not… well, not _so_ tired,” he relented, blushing under her knowing frown. He didn’t raise a fuss when she stripped the loose tie from his neck, dropping it off the side of the bed. His jacket followed, fingers sliding over the elaborate sequins as she worked it off his shoulders and let it fall as well. He chuckled when she made a face, cringing away from the sour stench of booze and cigarettes that clung to his shirt.

“You _stink_ , Héctor. You smell like a nightclub.” It wasn’t just the club’s fault either; its odor mingled with the pungent aroma of cheap aftershave and motel soap. And beneath that was _him_ , the stale sweat of a man who’d lived the past six weeks off bar snacks and fast food. He turned to sniff at his shirt, nose digging into his collarbone.

“Is it that bad?” He took a deep whiff. “What do I smell like?”

“Like a man who needs a shower.” She shoved again at his chest, brows arching. “Go take one, Mr. I’m-Not-Tired.”

“Well…” he paused, chewing on his lower lip before offering another patented ‘sultry’ smirk. “You know, since we’re both a little sweaty….”

“Héctor—” Their eyes met, tipsy determination versus stern obstinance. “No—”

“I know, no.” His gaze softened, head dropping to nuzzle into the crook of her neck. She tensed when she got a mouthful of unwashed hair, spitting it out with a sound of disgust. Her hand fell between his shoulder blades with a dull whack; it wasn’t so much a way to get him off of her, but rather one final act of defiance. She was already sweating herself, his warmth seeping into her through her clothes and bringing out a faint sheen on every limb. He grunted at the contact, but was otherwise unperturbed.

“Mmm… Imelda.” He nipped at her pulse, smiling against her skin when she jerked. His tongue followed, soothing the love bite before finding a new spot beneath her jaw. “ _Mi esposita hermosa…._ ”

“Héctor—”

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna get undressed,” he purred, kissing the sensitive skin behind her ear. “I’m helping you to relax. It feels good, no?”

“You’re not helping, trust me… I—Héctor, I mean it, I—” She bit her lip, squirming beneath him as he continued to work his way towards her collarbone with loud, messy, openmouthed kisses. A soft moan tickled her throat at the sensation of his hot mouth, the damp skin he left behind cooling quickly even in the warm night air. “I mean it,” she tried again, hearing the catch in her own voice. Damn him, he really did know just how to work her, a familiar ache kindling in her lower stomach.

“So do I,” he murmured, tasting the hollow of her throat before sucking lightly. Her toes curled against the quilt, hand sliding from his shoulders to tighten in his hair as another moan worked its way past her parted lips. “Shh,” he whispered, peppering kisses along the join of her neck and shoulder. “Relax, _mi amor_. I’ll take care of you, relax….” The temptation was definitely there; he wasn’t lying. She wouldn’t have to do a thing but enjoy it, years of experience with her body working in both of their favors. “I want to kiss you.”  

“I—”

“Let me kiss you, Imelda.”

“You’re ignoring me, Héctor!”

“Just one time,” he insisted, surprisingly adamant. “Just once, that’s all.”

“One time becomes two,” she mumbled, stalling as she tried to see the clock over his shoulder. “Which becomes three, and then?”

“ _Please_.”  His head lifted from her collarbone, his body catching the hem of her tank and pushing it further up her belly as he rose to face her. He bent, head tilting, his long lashes fluttering; she met his forehead with her palm, stopping him before he could steal a single kiss. She brushed the bangs from his eyes, staring deep into the dark, twinkling depths before letting out a sigh.

“Just _one_ kiss.” He nodded eagerly. “Promise me you’ll be quiet? One kiss, and then you’ll go to bed until sunrise. Okay?” she insisted, trying to sound as firm as possible; it was hard when her voice shook, skin tingling from his kisses.

“Quiet,” he promised. “I won’t wake a soul.” Her hand smoothed over his forehead, combing through his hair as best she could. It was a tangled mop, her fingers finding countless snags. If it pulled, it didn’t seem to bother him; he leaned into the touch with a boyish smile, nuzzling against her palm and humming with pleasure when she scratched his scalp. “Imelda,” he groaned, voice cracking with a husky edge. “Imelda, that feels so _good_ ….” His long eyelashes fluttered, a loose one falling to his cheek; she reached up to brush it away and he caught her hand, pressing a kiss tenderly to her knuckles before guiding it up to his hair as well. “Do it more.”

She obeyed without a word, petting and tugging at the thick strands until he was nearly purring. It was soft in her hands, a little sticky with the leftover gel Ernesto made him use when they were onstage together. She never tired of burying her fingers in the fluff, searching for the few gray hairs she knew were scattered somewhere amongst the black. He wasn’t graying anywhere as fast as his best friend, but it was just enough to send her heart racing at the sight.

As she worked her nails into a stubborn tangle, she slowly guided his head until it was pillowed on her chest. He went limp, rubbing his cheek happily against the rise of her breast before snuggling against her with a content sigh.

 _That’s right_ , she thought, smirking at the dead weight. **_You_** _relax, sleepyhead._ If she could just get him drowsy enough to drop off, that would be the end of it. Héctor was a notoriously heavy sleeper; the night she went into labor with Coco, she’d had to yank him from the bed just to wake him up. If he fell asleep now, he’d be out of commission for the next twelve hours at _least_.

The soft, repetitive movement of her hand soothed her as well, eyelids drifting shut. _Almost… in the clear_ …. His breathing slowed, fingers relaxing against her chest. Just when she thought that he was down for the count, the first precursor to a snore rumbled in his nose. The sound startled him, jerking him awake; he sat up, shaking himself out of his doze with a small frown, and looked down at her before rubbing the heel of his palm against one eye.

 _Damn it!_ She scowled at the ceiling, cursing her bad luck. He was committed to keeping himself active just long enough to stay awake another ten minutes. It was as bad a child who didn’t want to nap when told. She was even resigned to suffer through the heat his body radiated, just to know that he was comfortable, safe, and getting proper rest.

“Beautiful….” His thumb swiped over her cheekbone, rubbing a smooth pattern as he studied her quietly. Callouses tugged at her skin, his soft expression melting some of her frustration. Forget his sleeve—he wore his emotions on his face, unconcealed admiration and love beaming down at her even through his weariness. It was enough to make her nervous, heart skipping a beat as a warm flush rose to meet him.  

She shut her eyes, blocking out his love and scolding herself for even a moment’s weakness. It was too easy to bask in the attention he gave so freely, at the expense of him dragging out his one kiss to ridiculous lengths. And yet, who was she to complain if the man she loved was so intent on loving her back? He’d been gone over a month, after all, and she’d missed him. What was the harm in a little indulgence, if it calmed him down in the process?

 _A lot of harm!_ a voice in the back of her mind cried. Her pleasure shouldn’t come before his wellbeing. It was true that they loved each other, that they’d missed each other. Six weeks wasn’t an insurmountable stretch of time, but it was long enough for her to crave his body, to mourn his absence. But no matter what she felt, he was still drunk, and tired, and physically drained from being on the road. Anything she might want would just have to wait until after he’d had a shower, a hot meal, and a few hours’ rest… right?

 _Besides,_ the snide voice continued, _you know you can’t resist him for long… if at all._ It was true; no man had ever slid past her defenses as easily as Héctor. Even now he could slip his way into her good graces with little more than a smile and a wink—he was proving it right now. _Just one kiss, right? Didn’t all this start with ‘just one look’?_

Another truth, this one cutting deeper than the first. Her heart had belonged to that softhearted teenage goofball, well before she’d even realized it herself. He was the only one patient enough to indulge her denial-driven fancies, and bold enough to give her what she asked for every time. The lanky limbs he never grew into, the irregular features she loved to see every day, even his lighthearted nature—that lovesick boy had grown into a passionate man, one that would do anything for her.

No doubt about it: she was weak for him.

“Imelda.” His nose brushed hers, breath tickling her parted lips. An unconscious shiver raised the hair on her arms, eyes opening to see how close he was bent over her. She lifted her head just enough to return the gentle bump, wanting to urge him on but also relishing the unspoken intimacy between them. _Oh yes,_ the voice laughed smugly. _You’re weak._

She wondered, briefly, what he saw in her. Her hair had to be a tangled mess, stuck to the pillow as it was. Her face was blotchy with sleep, and there was sweat in the crease of her elbows. What was sexy about that? Nothing, as far as she could tell.

Maybe he looked at her the way she looked at him: long lashes, uncut hair curling over the tops of his ears, veins visible beneath the stubble on his thin neck. He wasn’t handsome like this, at least not in a conventional sense, and yet… the way he looked at her right now, looming over her in the pale lamplight, left heat pooling between her thighs.

“Are you going to get on with it or not?” she muttered, trying to distract herself from the need to drag him down by the ears and kiss him senseless.

“Hmm…?” He dipped just low enough that she could feel the teasing almost-pressure of his lips, backing away when she hurriedly tried to close the miniscule gap. An impatient huff blew the bangs from his face, prompting another laugh.

“Héctor!” His forehead pressed against hers, sweet and fleeting.

“Imelda, you’re not impatient, are you?” Knuckled brushed her mouth instead of his lips, fingers finding her chin. He angled her face to the light, head falling to one side as he looked her over. “You know, it doesn’t have to be just one kiss, right?”

“Yes, it _does_.” It wouldn’t do to sing a different tune now. “One kiss, and then?” She jabbed her finger against his goatee, then to the pillow beside her. “You? Bed.”  

“Well, then… guess I better make it count.” He kissed her lazily, mouth caressing in a way that had her melting against the sheets. The lingering taste of gin, sharp against the soft brush of his lips, left her shivering. Her arms slowly wound around his shoulders and she felt his triumphant smile, teeth catching at her lower lip. He bit gently before retreating, his fingers tracing lines of fire down her neck.

True to his word, he didn’t seem to be trying to rouse passion. He was the one to keep her in check, slowing their movements and paying no mind to the punishing grip she had on his shirt. He took his time, reacquainting himself with her after weeks apart, leisurely tracing the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue. His stubble scratched at her cheeks as he pulled away, a dazed, satisfied look in his eyes.

“More?” he slurred, and she wasn’t sure whether he was asking for permission or her opinion. She let out a soft whine, her iron resolve brittle enough that the single deviant sound had no trouble escaping. “More,” he nodded, his hand slipping to the back of her head and fisting the loose strands.

She let him deepen the kiss, fingers flexing before digging deeper into the meat of his shoulders. Her legs worked of their own accord, wrapping around his waist and trapping him against her; she was fairly certain that was _not_ what she ought to be doing with them, but… that’s where she wanted him to stay, at least for the moment. His free hand wormed between them, finding the hem of her tank and sliding boldly beneath. She bucked, biting back a hiss when his fingers found her breast.

“Sensitive?” he panted, voice roughened with desire. She twisted, her own hand fumbling for his through the shirt with a warning growl. “I know, I know,” he teased, stroking the soft skin above her diaphragm. “No undressing. I remember.”

“Do you?” Her calves burned as she pressed his bony hips closer, arching into his touch with a silent command. Deep down, the thought she needed to stop him still flickered faintly against the rising pleasure of touching, of being touched. But she couldn’t remember the exact reason for it, lost in the slow roll of his tongue against hers. A weak mewl slipped into her throat, his answering rumble going straight to her core.

“ _Mi amor_ —” He traced from the rise of her breast down to the flat valley above her sternum. He pulled back to watch her face as he traced idle circles around one peaked nipple, tongue darting out to lick the saliva from his lower lip. “Trust me,” he cooed, half-lidded eyes locked on her face with each teasing spiral.  

“Behave!” She tried to lift herself, guiding his finger where she wanted it most; his hand tightened in her hair every time she moved too far, keeping her grounded against the bed. “Héctor, _no_!” He grinned. “You’re such a—” she choked on her insult, gasping when a wet heat joined his hands at her chest. Somehow, she managed to find a handhold in his hair, squirming as the flat of his tongue dragged over the cotton.

“No?” He looked up at her, licking his lips. She sucked in a sharp breath, trying to remember that air was a necessity, not an option. Héctor smiled, lifting her tank until the fabric pooled at her collarbone: not undressed, just exposed. The night air felt amazing on her skin, chest heaving as their eyes locked. “No?” he repeated, softer this time. A query, mostly unspoken. When she didn’t reply, one brow arched imperiously. “Imelda….”

“You know better,” she whispered, blushing hard as her hand covered his. She smoothed over his knuckles, pulling it gently back to cup her unbound breast. He squeezed carefully, smiling when her lashes fluttered, and lowered his head without a word. There was no need for words, not when she strained against him, pushing his face further into her chest and fighting only against the sounds threatening to bubble out of her and potentially wake the house.

It was only when she felt his mischievous fingers dancing at the waistband of her shorts that she stopped him, her hands grabbing his and squeezing in a silent reprimand. Her last threads of restraints were focused only on keeping him out of her pants, knowing that if he felt how wet she was that he would lose himself. And, if that happened, she wouldn’t be the one to stop him—she wanted it too much.

“ _Imelda_ ,” he pouted, gearing up for an argument. Distracting him the only way she knew how, she grabbed his face in both hands and pulled him back for another round of searing kisses that left them both breathless.

“Behave,” she repeated, nuzzling his ear before peppering kisses along the column of his throat. Tit for tat, that the was the polite way to do things—and the safe way, if she was honest with herself.

She found the first button of his collar, tracing the pearled plastic with one nail before unbuttoning it. The white fabric parted easily as she unbuttoned him to the waist, hanging open where it was still tucked neatly into his pants. She paused a moment, admiring the dark whorls of wiry hair on his chest, the line running past his naval and into his pants. She combed through it with her fingers, humming her approval before slipping her hand inside.

His heart raced beneath her palm, skin flushed with desire and natural heat. Pride surged through her, the thought that even after all these years, she could still turn him on. The proof of her prowess bulged beneath his belt, rubbing against her thigh as he leaned into her touch. He still wanted her, just as much as she wanted him.

Slowly, she repaid every tender attention he’d given to her. Her nails raked lightly over his nipples, circling and flicking as she ran her tongue over the jutting ridge of his collarbone. She could feel the outline of every rib, nothing but skin and hair separating her curious fingers from both lean muscle and cool bone. Every taste of his bared flesh earned her a broken groan, his head dropping as he fought to stifle his own pleasure.

Her teeth scraped lightly over his pulse and he surged against her, pushing her back into the mattress, his hips rocking them both against the squeaking box spring. His belt buckle pressed against her lower stomach through the thin material of her shorts, the layers of cloth nothing more than added friction as he rubbed against her core. _Shit…_ Her guard was completely down, and he’d taken full advantage of it, whether he realized it or not. _I should have known; drunk or not, he’s still Héctor._

“W-wait, Héctor—” She turned her head, breaking their kiss and trying to regain some control of the situation. He paused, jaw clenched, a helpless need in his eyes.

“Don’t stop, not now—not when—” He gulped, panting heavily. “I want you, ‘Melda, I want—I _need_ —” She couldn’t blame him; his self-restraint had never been much, but after a tour it was almost nonexistent. Besides, she felt the same need, the coiling fire in her stomach demanding that they continue. But….

“It’s nearly five,” she protested, hands running soothing circles over his bared chest. “We need to sleep, Héctor.” Her tone wasn’t as stern as she’d have liked it to be. “A-and… and I let you have more than one kiss,” she added. “You _promised_.”

“But, if we’re both quiet, we can… right? Right?” Why was she surprised when he pulled these stunts? He should have been a lawyer, the way he jumped through loopholes. She frowned, eyes closing to hide the sight of his sweet, pleading face. “I can be quiet, if you can. You won’t even have to get undressed.”

“That’s not the point.” She twisted away from him, running a hand through her hair. Her body was covered in sweat, hot and aching, and yet she still keenly felt the loss of his comforting weight, and his heat. He followed as best he could, curving his body arounds hers and tucking his legs against the back of her knees. His hand left her breast, sliding down her slickened skin to find the elastic of her shorts.

“Héctor…” She held her breath as his fingers slowly curled into her hair, resting innocently against her public bone. She turned her face into the pillow, muffling her frustrated cry. She knew that they needed sleep, that _he_ needed his rest, and that if they would just stop and close their eyes they could both be snoring in minutes. But they also needed this—each other— almost as badly as any other bodily function. Which was the right choice?

“You’re wet.” He pressed his cheek against her shoulder, his words muffled and hot against her skin. “I can feel it from here, you’re already so _wet_ ….”

“And you’re hard,” she whispered back, grinding against him until he hissed. “I want you, but… we can’t.”

“You want to?” The tight material trapped his hand against her core, sliding lower until his fingertips skirted her outer lips. “You want me to stop?” She shook her head, biting down on the edge of her palm as he slid one finger inside of her. “More?”

“ _Sí_ , I—we shouldn’t—” He coated his fingers, sliding up to circle her clit before rubbing hard. “N— _ah_ —” He felt so good, _too_ good, his calloused digits dipping into her easily and driving the final nail into her coffin. He played her just as easily as a guitar, rubbing against her inner walls until she cried out into her hands, teeth leaving marks on fingers and palms alike. He flexed them inside her and she saw stars, legs quivering as he held her on the brink.

“Imelda? You really want to?” he repeated, voice strained. Her thighs locked around his hand, unable to trust her shaking voice with an answer. “’Melda?”

“I—yes—” She shuddered, moaning into the pillow as his hand slipped out of her shorts. “Héctor, I—I missed you so much; don’t think that I didn’t… that I never….”

“You’re all I think about on the road.” His knee worked between hers, spreading her legs as he gently rolled her onto her stomach. He kissed his way across both shoulders, lifting her hair and running his hands down the length of her curves. “Every city,” he muttered between kisses, lifting her waist until she had no choice but to steady herself on her knees, “every hotel—it’s you, it’s always you.”

“Héctor?” His upper body still pressed hers to the bed, fingers snagging on the elastic of her shorts.

“I want you on the bed, in the shower,” he growled into her ear, reaching around to squeeze her breasts as he spoke. “Even on those dumb padded armchairs, I think about us in one… I want you to ride me until we get noise complaints, I want… _carpet burn_ from that stupid fabric, I— _shit_ —”

She trembled beneath him, cheek flush with the pillow and hands fisting in the quilt. He was driving her mad and she didn’t even care, her body alight and begging for everything he could give her—only him, he was the only person who could make her feel this way. Why had she ever been so adamantly against this? Who cared about sleep? They could sleep later, when they were sated.

“Tell me to stop,” he urged, his hands like vises on either side of her hipbones. He pressed his pelvis flush to hers, teasing them both as his pants dragged heavily against the material of her shorts. The solid weight of him pressed into her back, his chest warm and heaving against her spine. “I need you to say it, for the both of us,” he pleaded. She shook her head, crushing the pillow against her forehead.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she managed to gasp, lifting her hips higher in open invitation. “I need you, please—” He yanked shorts and panties both over the rise of her ass, soothing her exposed cheeks with both hands before shoving them down to her knees.

“It’s not undressed,” he excused himself, rubbing her thighs appreciatively. “Not really.”

“No,” she agreed breathlessly, clutching the pillow for dear life. “It’s not.” The fabric strained as her legs parted, spreading unconsciously for him. She arched her back, looking over her shoulder in time to see him rise to his knees, hands reaching for his belt. She bit her lip as he unhooked it deftly, buckle clinking as it hit the metal studs on the side of his pants.

He didn’t bother with the button or zipper, pushing the pants off his hips along with his underwear; he let out a little groan of relief, one hand rising to stroke himself with a little shiver of pleasure. She hugged the pillow beneath her neck, toes curling in anticipation of what she knew would come. Quickly, she turned and buried her face in the cool fabric, not trusting herself to stay quiet when he entered her.

“You really are wet,” he murmured approvingly, rubbing against her without the barrier of their clothing between them. She rose to meet him, legs and neck protesting at the movement; it was enough to notice, but she was beyond caring. _I want him to make me sore, I want to remember it tomorrow—_ “If we had more time, I’d taste you.”

“Hurry,” she snapped, the sharp retort muffled in the pillow. He smirked, huffing a soft laugh behind her, and then she felt him at her entrance. Nodding her approval, she couldn’t help but let out a cry as he slowly sank into her, working himself in short thrusts until he was buried to the hilt. He collapsed against her with a satisfied sound, his nose poking into the join of her neck and shoulder.

This was what she wanted: him inside her, surrounding her, smothering her with heat and love. She couldn’t help but feel secure, his body like a living, breathing cocoon. He moved so that his chin pressed between her shoulder blades, spine bowed and arms wound around her torso to reach her breasts. They both remained still, lost in the moment and just enjoying the feeling of being joined.

“ _Te amo_.” She twisted her head, whispering the words to him beneath her arm. “Héctor.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her spine, gathering his bearings before rolling his hips. She bit her cheek, little cries escaping her half-open lips and her legs sliding on the quilt as she returned his thrusts. Her neck ached in a good way, his hips smacking against hers as he redoubled his grip on her hips. She whimpered, knowing his long fingers would leave bruises but not caring in the slightest. Who would see them, under her crisp business suits?

The sheets bunched at her heels as she braced herself, clawing first at the edge of the bed, then the pillow, then his arms as he slid down to press her fully against the mattress. He bucked against her blindly, sweat rolling off his chin as he gasped wordless exclamations into her hair. His fingers laced into hers and she nearly screamed when his angle changed, hitting a sweet spot deep inside that sent shockwaves through every limb.

 “Héctor, _oh_ —” He cursed at the sound of his name, the fierce snap of his hips shoving the bed against the wall. A moment of semblance had her thanking her lucky stars that it was an outer wall, not directly connected to any other room. She lifted her head with the intent to warn him, to remind him that they were supposed to be quiet; he ground into her and she groaned aloud instead, hand clapping over her mouth.

 _Dios, it’s not enough;_ she needed more, more movement, more friction, more delicious heat eating her alive from the inside out. He whispered darkly above her, his voice a jagged snarl as his rhythm began to stagger. He was nearing his edge, the muscles of his arms tensing as he cried out, muffling himself against her neck.

“ _Te amo_ ,” he hissed, tongue laving the bite before worrying it again with his teeth. She panted helplessly, desperately chasing the edge he was so close to achieving. “ _Fu—te amo, te’m—a—mm-melda—”_ He jerked above her, words trailing off in a guttural moan.

“ _Mi amor,_ ” she purred, shivering as heat spread through her limbs, warm liquid dripping down her thighs. He whined in response, kissing her damp skin as his hips stuttered, working himself slowly down from his high. He sucked in an erratic breath and continued to thrust shallowly, his hand working beneath their bodies to find her wet folds.

“Now you.” He found her clit and rubbed, his hips pushing to help grind her on his fingers. “ _El amor de mi vida_ … show me how you sing.” If they had been alone, without a sleeping family to worry about, she might have taken him up on that offer. Instead, she let the pillow absorb her squeals as she desperately sought her own release, writhing against his hand.

It came over her all at once, her body clenching around him and pulling one last growl from her husband’s throat. There was no room for her back to arch, her body pushed into the mattress so that she could only shake and nearly sob in the wake of the raw pleasure washing over her. He shuddered above her, his softening length sliding out of her as she quietly gasped his name, wiping at the drool on her chin with the back of her hand.

They slid apart with equal sighs, staring quietly at each other as their breathing slowed and bodies loosened. He came back to life first, reaching out to press a hand to the scar on her stomach, his thumb tracing circles beneath her navel.

“Mmm.” She couldn’t bring herself to talk, her every limb sated and mind blanking in exhaustion.

“Good?”

“Mm.” She rolled until she found herself in the crook of his arm, barely mustering the strength to pull the shorts back up over her hips. The stickiness between her thigh could be dealt with tomorrow; she was too tired to care, no matter how bothersome it felt. “Take a shower,” she mumbled, trying to form a coherent sentence and only halfway succeeding.   

“I’m  _ti-i-i-red_.” His pants lay around his ankles, shirt crumpled around his armpits.

“Pull up your pants.” She closed her eyes, waiting for him to obey. “Héctor, pull up—”

 _Snore._ She sat up, rubbing the back of her neck as she looked down at him. If it weren’t for someone bursting in on them tomorrow, she’d be tempted to just let him sleep at he was. _I am going to be sore tomorrow,_ she realized, the bite on her neck beginning to throb. _Oh well._ She used the last of her reserves to yank the pants back up his legs, leaving the belt to flop uselessly on either side of his bony hips. _Ay._

His face was already smoothing in sleep, lashes fluttering and mouth hanging open. She shook her head, leaning down to kiss his forehead, then his cheek, his chin, his ear. He shifted, one corner of his mouth rising in a sleepy, contented smile. There was nothing left to do except curl up beside him, one ankle hooked around his and her arms looped around his closest bicep.

“Goodnight, you goof.” There was no answer, but she didn’t need one. _At least I got him to sleep._

* * *

 

__

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the end is by @FrostycocoF on Twitter!


	2. The Very Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor gets an impromptu heej, while Imelda floats down the river of Denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was released during the 30 Day NSFW Challenge under Day 24: "Shy".  
> It's also the first segment of what I affectionately refer to as the "AU of the AU", also known on the Cocos Locos Discord as the "High School/HS!AU". Set in the Biker!AU universe, it's more about Héctor and Imelda's past together before getting married. 
> 
> This one hasn't changed much since I posted it in August, but I've added the art for it at the end of the chapter and hope that if you haven't already read, that you enjoy it!

“Just forget I said anything!”

Imelda had never been more embarrassed in her life: not when she’d burped in the middle of an oral report, not when she’d tripped and fallen in front of everyone last _Jueves Santo_ , not even when her twin brothers had dunked a bucket of icy water on her first-ever date’s head. Those had been _laughable_ moments compared to the utter mortification burning through her veins right now. “I’m sorry I even brought it up.”

“Sorry,” Héctor murmured, the blush still raging on his cheeks. He curled into himself, rubbing his arm absently as he hunched over his crossed legs. She resisted the urge to snap at him, jaw clenching; he was always apologizing for the stupidest things, even if it wasn’t his fault! When was he going to man up? _He’s so sensitive! No wonder all the guys in our class bully him!_ He was lucky that Ernesto was his best friend; otherwise, he’d be picking himself out of the dumpster every single day after school was over.

“I said forget it!” she scowled, twisting so that she didn’t have to look directly at him. It was nearly impossible; the natural clearing they sat in was only a few feet wide, and turning around completely meant she either had to climb in his lap, or risk getting a bird’s nest worth of leaves and twigs in her ponytail. _This stupid secret hideout is too small! Or…_ she admitted to herself with a twinge of sadness, _we’re getting too big._

When they were little kids, playing together after school, their hideout had seemed huge. The branches had towered above their heads like vaulted ceilings in the cathedral. The thick, thorny bushes hid them from the world; blossoms in spring and berries in summer became their play-money, ‘house’ decorations, pretend food, and overpriced wares—depending on the game, of course. The whispering waters of the tiny nearby brook had been their music, and crossing it to reach the clearing always felt like a big, secret adventure.

Even when they were in _secundaria_ , it had seemed large enough for the two of them. She’d pinned Héctor down and made him swear on his own spit to never, _ever_ tell Ernesto about their hiding place; there definitely wasn’t enough room for three, and the thought of him bringing his stupid friend into _their_ space made her blood boil.

It was _not_ jealousy… she just hadn’t wanted Ernesto’s fat head sullying up her forest clearing.

But now it was cramped. Unless the two of them sat cross-legged, there were too many limbs and not enough free space. Héctor’s head brushed the tops of the lowest branches, even if he bent over, and her hair was always getting caught in the bushes they’d loved so much as children. He towered over her now, his long limbs cramping if he didn’t get a chance to stretch them, even at the cost of her personal space.  

Still, neither of them ever said no when the other suggested going to their secret forest spot. Maybe it was partly nostalgia, but… it felt safe here, secluded, somehow apart from the rest of the world. They didn’t have to worry about being seen or overheard. They didn’t have to listen to jealous boyfriends not wanting her to talk to her guy friends. They _certainly_ didn’t have to listen to the ‘tough guys’ laughing at Héctor for hanging out with girls.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured, sneaking glances at her through his bangs. She scowled, rolling her shoulders in what she meant to be a loose, nonchalant shrug. It only made her feel marginally better that his face was as red as hers felt, the blush burning everything from the tips of his ears down to the sparse clusters of downy facial hair he tried to call a goatee. “It’s just—you took me by surprise. I didn’t think something like that would… would be… um….”  

“Coming from me?” she finished for him, the words bitter on her tongue. Who did he think he was, grouping her with the other uptight virgins that shied away from the mere mention of a man’s genitals? Just because she was class president _and_ head of the student council didn’t mean she was a _princesita_. Everyone in school—no, everyone in _Santa Cecilia_ thought she was Little Miss Purity, just because she didn’t spread her legs for every two-bit wannabe jock that had the balls to call her beautiful!

_I have needs too, damnit! I just have more self-control than those other putas!_

Of course, her lack of experience was the whole reason she was in this mess now, wasn’t it? _Damn Chela, with your damn older boyfriend and your damn parents working damn midnight shifts! Why couldn’t you just keep your big mouth shut for once?_ This was all her fault, just because she was being a braggart. _Ooh, my boyfriend says I give the best hand jobs ever! Ooh, he says I’m a natural!_

Who cared if stupid old Marcela was good with her hands?! Moreover, _why_ could she not just forget about the whole conversation?

It definitely hadn’t been the first time she’d faked her way through a discussion about sex; she’d spent many a lunch hour laughing along with her friends in the courtyard, pretending she’d seen it all. In reality she’d only had two boyfriends, and she’d never gone beyond handholding with either of them. But she couldn’t let anyone else know that; she’d be the laughingstock of her peers!

  _Things had just been so much easier when I was a kid!_ When she was thirteen, Mamá had told her all about how a girl becomes a woman: the bodily changes, the shifting moods… and the way babies were created. At least when the others complained about periods and mood swings she’d been able to nod sympathetically, even if she wouldn’t feel the first cramps stirring in her abdomen for months.

“It’s not that!” he sputtered, startling her out of her thoughts. He rubbed his hands against his slacks, palms scrubbing at the khaki fabric. There were frayed bandages on nearly every finger, covering the blisters he got from hours of guitar practice. She’d grown used to the sight of them, and the faint, but constant smell of neomycin that seemed to hang around him since he started earning his callouses. “I—uh—that is—it’s just—”

She watched his hands, unable to meet his eyes as he stammered. He was always searching for words these days, leaving her hanging more often than not as he fumbled to say what he meant. _Why is that? What’s changed?_

He’d had no qualms filling her ears with nonsense when they were kids, yammering on about anything and everything. It was always wild stories from his imagination, invented on the fly and often having nothing to do with whatever was going on at the time. Some made-up adventure with Ernesto, or something crazy about his latest foster family, or this one time where he dreamed the sea was the sky and the sky was the sea and they all had to take a submarines instead of airplanes and—

Even as a kid, a part of her had known he needed those fake stories, and needed her to tell them to. It was the same part of her that knew he didn’t want to leave the forest when it was dark, and that the bruises on his arms weren’t all from playing _fútbol_ with the boys at recess.

That softer part of her had brought tears the first time he came to say goodbye, telling her that he had to go live with another family somewhere up north. It put a lump in her throat every time he came back, a little taller and a little sadder, joking about his social worker the way other kids joked about their parents.

But, as much as some of his weirder stories kind of bored her… she wished he’d still talk about them. She wanted to hear about his crazy ideas for songs, or some fantasy rattling around in his airheaded mind, but instead— nothing. He let her do the talking for them both, occasionally interjecting with a soft laugh, but usually just staring at her.

It was weird—or, rather, it left a weird feeling in her stomach. Almost like he was trying to tell her something with his eyes, and she just wasn’t getting it. It reminded her of when she and her brothers played hangman, trying to guess the answer before they ran out of tries. This time, however, she was trying to guess an answer without any hints… or letters. His silence was startling at times, more than his stories had ever been, no matter how odd.

“…me.” She blinked, realizing that she’d spaced out again while waiting for him to come up with an answer. _Dios, Imelda! Get it together, girl!_ She pressed the heel of her palms to her eyelids, a thick mass of emotion churning in her gut like a boiling soup. Leftover humiliation from his awkward, flailing reaction, frustration at herself for being such a stupid little virgin, exasperation at… _something,_ she didn’t even know what. But it was there, even if she didn’t understand it at all; it just made her all the readier for this minute, this moment, this _day_ to be over.

“What?” she snapped, massaging her lids until she felt the mascara clump together on her eyelashes. _Shit._ She wiped her hands on the ground, hoping that she didn’t have raccoon eyes for the walk home. There was always a pocket mirror in her satchel; she could check, but that would require reaching for it. Imelda didn’t want to move unless it was to get out of here, and go collapse face down on her bed.

Héctor stared at the patch of dark earth between his thighs, hands hanging limply from his knees. His bangs fell over his face, hiding everything but his mouth, which twisted in and out of a grimace as he thought. It was painful to watch; Imelda grew more and more sick to her stomach as the silence expanded to fill the clearing. This was new and awkward, churning with something that echoed the nauseating mess in her gut; again she yearned for the old days, when they could sit side by side for hours without saying a word.

 _Damnit, H_ _é_ _ctor, what changed_?! _Or… when?_

_Why did I not realize that we were drifting this far apart?_

“Why?” She blinked, startled, and bristled. He wasn’t supposed to just _ignore_ her question like that! She glared at him, only to find something close to determination glinting back at her. It made her uneasy, the hesitant thought that he might not let this slide while they were alone. He used to be stubborn; if he still had that tenacity, she’d have a hard time changing the subject without a proper answer.

“Really, Héctor. Just forget it.” Averting her eyes, she brushed the ponytail from where it stuck to the back of her white school blouse. “It doesn’t matter.” She yanked at the black tie hanging from her neck, twisting the dark fabric through her fingers. Héctor shifted his hands, pressing them into the empty space of his lap, and frowned.  

“I’m not just going to forget that you asked me to take off my pants.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes as a new wave of heat colored her cheeks. Did he have to be so damn blunt about it?! _Then again, I was blunt too…._

“It’s not like that,” she insisted, for what felt like the thousandth time. “Don’t even go there. It’s not like that at all.” How dare he, that idiot, that _payaso_ —who did he think he was, jumping to conclusions? She knew exactly what he was thinking, and it wasn’t true. She was _not_ into Héctor Rivera, no matter what he thought. Wishful thinking on his part, that’s all it was.

“Then why?”

“Because… it’s because—” She growled, yanking a fistful of hair. “Ugh, are you really going to make me say it?!” Why couldn’t the ground just swallow her up right now? This wasn’t going at all like she’d planned! Of course, she hadn’t had much of a plan to begin with; it was more of a thought, really, and one that had clearly gotten too far out of hand.

Then again, she’d been banking on Héctor being able to do his weird mind-reading thing; sometimes it seemed like he knew exactly what she was thinking, long before she did. But this was clearly not one of those times. _Of course,_ she grumbled. _That would’ve been far too easy._ Why couldn’t he just glean the answer from all the context clues… or better yet, why did he need an answer at all? Any other guy in their _preparatoria_ would have bent over backwards for the chance to be naked in front of her!  Here she was, giving him a free pass, and he was ruining it with his logic!  

“Uh, yeah?” He cocked his head at her, bangs falling to the side. “Well, I mean… I think that if you want me to strip, I should know why I’m doing it.” His expression was utterly baffled, remorse and confusion warring for dominance. It was clear that he didn’t understand at all, and he was sorry for it. But he also knew—they both knew—that if he apologized one more time, she would snap. The last thing he wanted was a pounding headache, courtesy of her shoe. “I wouldn’t ask you to take off your skirt without giving you a good reason.”

Damnit, he had a point.

“ _Ay, dios mío_.” Imelda rubbed her eyes again, no longer caring about her makeup. Two black eyes was a small price to pay for her own stupid question. She would be lucky to leave the clearing with her sanity at this point. _Why did I even bring this up?_ In hindsight, wouldn’t it have been better to just sneak an anatomy book from the science lab? Or, better yet: the local library was there for a reason. It wouldn’t have been a lie—in a technical sense, anyway—to claim she was doing research for school.

Peering through her fingers, she looked him over with a sigh. Unkempt hair, shirt open against the heat of the day, slumped over until his posture _looked_ painful, still watching her with those warm, soft eyes. Books and websites, encyclopedias and diagrams could only show her so much. She’d always been a hands-on type of person when it came to detail. She had no fear of getting her nails dirty.

She wasn’t top of her class for nothing, after all.

On top of that, it wasn’t enough to know what a man _looked_ like. She needed facts, specifics, knowledge that only came about through personal, up-close examination. She wasn’t about to flounder her way through another conversation, living in fear of being found out as a fraud. Porn and risqué magazines were too dangerous to have on hand, especially in a house with nosy twin brothers sneaking into her room. What she’d needed was a living specimen… a guinea pig. A personal science experiment.

She’d needed a man, someone who was easy to access and yet would uphold a vow of secrecy. Someone who wouldn’t try to be fresh, or force her into some kind of tit-for-tat contract she would feel obligated to accept. Someone who wouldn’t be averse to her studying them in a purely scientific way, with no expectations and certainly no strings attached.

That’s why she’d chosen Héctor. A good friend, trustworthy and loyal, who wouldn’t any expect more of her than she’d expect of herself. She knew that if she explained her reasoning, he’d be more than willing to come to her aid. He was always so eager to help her—always had been—and this was something that really only _he_ could be trusted to do for her.

“Look… I’ll just say it straight.” She rubbed her forehead, fingers prodding at her temples as she gathered her resolve. All she had to do was tell him in a calm, rational manner. Just five minutes of his time was all she asked for… unless it took more than five minutes to get erect? _I should have brought a stopwatch. So much for being prepared._

“…Yes?” _Calm and rational. Calm, and rational._

“I want to see your penis.”

“¿¡ _Qué_!?” He jumped as though her words were an electric shock, knees coming up to his chest defensively to hide his clothed groin. “W-w-what for?!” he managed to croak, eyes flicking from her to the exit tunnel they’d beaten down to dusty earth after years of crawling beneath the bushes.  

“I need to know it works, that’s all.” She rolled her eyes at his dramatics. “Like I said, don’t even go there. This is—it’s because I’m a virgin, okay? It has nothing to do with you.”

“I think it has a lot to do with me!” he retorted, arms pulling his legs closer to his thin torso. He rested his chin on his knees, frowning down at the empty grass between them. “ _Pero_ , _no entiendo_ : what does your virginity have to do with anything?” His forehead crinkled, bushy brows nearly meeting over his nose. “I’m a virgin too, you know.”

“You don’t think I know that?!” His mouth jumped, face full of wounded pride.

“…Is it that obvious?”

“No, I— _ugh_!” she groaned, sliding her hands over her perfectly sleeked hair and wishing she could just dig her fingers into the soft, neat locks without ruining her ponytail. “Okay, okay. This doesn’t have to do with virgins or not virgins, it—”

“But you just said—”

“ _I know what I just said_!” She drew in a deep breath, nostrils flaring. _Calm and rational, Imelda. This is for science. Don’t let your emotions get the better of you._ “I know you don’t understand it, Héctor. It’s because you’re you, and I’m me.” He blinked slowly, letting the sentence settle before sinking farther into the protective fortress of his knees.  

“And?” He mumbled, voice muffled behind his slacks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She threw up her hands in defeat, cursing up a storm inside her brain before burying it deep in her chest. It boiled with her other emotions, festering below her ribs until she wanted to stand up and scream. She didn’t, though; taking another deep breath, she gathered her thoughts behind steepled fingers before trying to explain.

“Look: it’s like this.” She gestured to herself: pressed white blouse, pleated skirt, intelligent expression covered by perfect hair and a good skincare routine. A quintessential schoolgirl, the kind that both teachers and students loved. It wasn’t her, not exactly; the real Imelda only surfaced in certain places, hidden carefully behind the pretty mask she showed to the world. But it was a part of her, and it was enough.

“Girls like me? We’re expected to know certain things. About guys, and… and what they like. Think about it like this, Héctor: I’m class president, valedictorian, in three different clubs, with a seat on the student council, a peer mentor _and_ a part-time tutor.” She tossed her hair, brows arching imperiously. “If I’m not popular, then what am I?”

“Busy?”

“A _nerd_.” He snorted, shaking his head quickly; even with his face half-hidden by his arms, she could tell he was grinning. She felt a little flutter and pushed it away, even as it tried to expand in her chest. She was happy she could make him smile, but she didn’t have time for that right now. She had a mission.

“You’ll never be a nerd, ‘Melda.” His eyes softened, watching her closely from behind his bangs. She felt another, stronger flutter at the words and scoffed. 

“ _Because_ I’m popular,” she excused herself, ignoring how warm her face was. It was late afternoon, after all—of course the heat of the day would reach here, even with the shade all around them. “But I’m not going to stay popular if I don’t meet the requirements. All of my friends have already… experimented.”

“Experimented?”

“I want _my_ first time to be special. Something I can really enjoy, with someone I care about. _Not_ penciled in somewhere between debate club and the council meeting.” She felt a real flush color her cheeks and huffed in annoyance, yanking handfuls of grass out of the ground and tossing them into the bushes. Was that really too much to ask? A girl had the right to wait until marriage to have sex… right? Or was that something too old-fashioned? Was she the only girl in Santa Cecilia who still felt that way?

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. Wait. Rewind.” Héctor rose back up to mostly-full height, frowning with genuine puzzlement. “ _All_ of them? All your friends?”

“ _S_ _í_. That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

“Even Raquel? Lucía?”

“Yes, and _definitely_.”

“Chela?”

“Pretty damn sure, Héctor.” Imelda shook her head, sucking in an impatient breath between her teeth. What was this, twenty questions? “When I say ‘all my friends’, I usually mean _all_ of my friends.” After all, Chela was the main reason they were sitting here now!

“But I thought… Chimo said that….” He blanked, face impassive. “Forget it.” _Okay, now that’s interesting._

“No, go on. What did Chimo say?”

“N-nothing.”

“Héctor _._ ” She crossed her arms, curiosity piqued. “What is it?” 

“ _No importa_.” 

“Don’t make me come over there and pin you down until you confess.” He glanced at her, clearly startled. What was the matter _now_? It wouldn’t be the first time she pinned him, and it certainly wasn’t about to be the last! He acted like the thought had never occurred to her before!

“I—I don’t—” He searched around the clearing, cheeks dark and sweat starting to bead on his nose. “W-we didn’t come here to talk about Chimo! A-and I don’t know—I’m not—why _me_?” he stammered, a visible tremor running through his frame. “Why did you pick me for this? Why does it have to be _mine_?”

“You were just the first guy I thought of.” She shrugged, picking apart a blade of grass. The long, thin strips separated with a squeaky, almost wet sound. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes, but felt the air in the clearing thicken between them. She swallowed hard, trying to think of something else to add. _Calm, rational… casual. Be casual, Imelda._ “Any man would do, I guess.”  

He was silent for so long that she had no choice but to look up. The raw expression on his face shocked her; he was clearly upset, and for once she had no idea _why_. It wasn’t as if she’d said anything to offend him. For a long, bewildered moment their eyes met and she stared, trying to understand what she’d said to make him look like that. Then he cast his eyes around the clearing, looking for his things.

“Well,” he replied, his voice strangely distant, “if any man can do it, you won’t mind finding someone else.”

“What?”

“Find someone else,” he repeated, reaching for his books.

“But—I—” she sputtered, trying to coerce her tongue into saying three sentences at the same time. He wasn’t supposed to _leave_! Her mouth fell open, brain stalling as she watched him sling the satchel over his shoulder, giving her one last look before turning to the exit. “Héctor, wait!” He paused at the mouth of the exit, hands fisting in the grass, and then turned expectantly.

“What?”

“Héctor, I—” She sighed, the frustration welling inside her again: this time at herself. Why was this so hard to say outright? “It’s because I trust you, okay?! I chose you because… because I knew I could trust you.”

“You… you trust me?” She nearly screaming in exasperation; of course she trusted him! Why did he even have to ask? They’d been friends for over a decade now. It was only natural that she felt a close bond with him, something she didn’t have with their other male peers. Something that made her comfortable with the idea of seeing him naked.

“Duh!” The sound burst out of her, echoing in the woods around them. His nose crinkled, expression dissolving into annoyance—something she recognized, but wasn’t used to coming from him _._ It was almost laughable, to think that sweet, easygoing Héctor Rivera had the ability to be annoyed at someone. Of course, it was directed at her, which wasn’t helping her cause any. He was clearly waiting for some further explanation.

“Look,” she started again, clearing her throat quickly. If she didn’t pick up the pace, he might run out of patience entirely. She wasn’t about to chase him all the way back to town, pleading her case; she didn’t chase _anyone_ , and wasn’t about to start now. “I mean it, Héctor. I trust you.”

“I—and?” He shifted, the satchel sliding on his bony shoulder. “So what? You’re right. Any guy will do. And there’s plenty of them willing to drop their pants for the first cute girl that asks. Including you.” He turned back to the tunnel, dismissing her. “You’ll manage.”

“But they’re not you!” The moment she blurted the words she knew they were true… and she wished she could take them back. His head whipped around, fast enough that she wondered he didn’t get whiplash. “What I mean is… most of the boys at school are big jerks. You know that.” 

 _“_ Then why would you say that to me?” He didn’t drop his satchel, but his body sagged back into a loose posture. He was staying… for the moment. _Just hear me out,_ she half-pleaded in the back of her mind.

“I just meant anatomically!” She tried to keep her voice calm, neutral and unaffected; instead, it was awkward and jittery, the words either too small or too loud. She ran her fingers through her ponytail, neatly-trimmed nails separating the curls until they started to frizz.

“I see.” _Damnit, the last thing I want is for him to think I’m shy_! It didn’t help that there _was_ a measure of bashfulness, hiding cleverly just beneath her other, more potent emotions. It had caught her unawares, and now she was nearly babbling in her hurry to explain herself before he left her alone.

“Those jerks, they’d try to do something stupid like blackmail me— they’d want me to lift my skirt, or show my tits or something. But you wouldn’t. And you’ve always been good about helping me when I needed it. I just thought….” She trailed off, still working her hair into a nice frizz and unable to stop herself. She knew it was unseemly—and really, a little unfair—to whine, but she couldn’t help adding, “Besides: I’d help _you_ , if it was the other way around.”  

“ _Imelda._ ” He tilted his head, giving her a look that he usually reserved for Ernesto. It was clear that he saw right through her bluff; if the tables were turned, she’d be just as hesitant, if not more, of baring herself. Even if it _was_ only for him, and in an entirely nonsexual context.

“Fine, fine,” she conceded. “Whatever. Are you going to help me, or not?” The clearing fell silent. She waited, fingers laced, trying not to fidget. Slowly—too slowly for her liking— the satchel slid from his grasp. It hit the bushes behind him, thorns snagging the worn straps and scratching new dents into the threadbare cloth. She felt a quiver of hope. If he’d dropped the satchel… if he was flopping back onto his rear… if his legs were falling apart in their usual, easygoing manner… did that mean?

Just as she was starting to feel that he’d taken her words to heart, that her compliments to his character weren’t unnoticed—he grinned. Her heart froze midbeat, a solid stone in her chest that sank, dread-filled, to her stomach. She knew that smirk, that smug curl to his mouth that left her infuriated, irritated… and, for some strange reason, blushing.

“Say please.”  For a moment, her brain could barely register that he spoke. It was stuck on _please_ , the sound loud and clanging in in her head. She couldn’t move past it, appalled that he’d even—he had the nerve to tease her in a moment like this! Here she was, trying her best to keep things in the mature realm of adulthood, and he had to bring it back down to his asinine teenage level with something as ridiculous as—as— _please_!?

“Héctor!” It was almost a relief when her blood boiled, anger taking its rightful hold at the forefront of her emotions. Being shy around him was something new, unfamiliar and frankly weird. Being _annoyed_ at him, on the other hand; that, she could handle. “You—you jerk! You’re just as bad as the rest of them!” Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly true, but….

“Hey! A little courtesy for the guy willing to help you out!” He squeezed his ankles, leaning to the side as he waited with that same awful, knowing smirk. Suddenly the anger became embarrassment, faster than she could try to prevent it. One moment she wanted to let his face meet her loafer, and the next—well, the next she was looking everywhere but at him.

“I—you—” Her fingers twisted in the pleats of her skirt, wrinkling the neat creases Mamá ironed into them every week. “Fine!” She couldn’t meet his eyes, so she glared down at her tie until she could see the individual threads making up the black cloth. “ _A_ - _ayúdame_ , _p_ … _por favor_.” The words hung between them, wavering in the warm air.

“ _Por supuesto_ ,” he agreed, in a different voice entirely. She heard the shuffle of cloth, slacks scratching against leafy, loamy earth. “It—it’s kind of hard for me to say no.” Was he already taking off his trousers? She hoped so, wanting his seemingly natural confidence to take over; yet, in the same way she was afraid that he _had_ , too quickly for her to prepare herself. It didn’t matter; he’d only braced his feet on the ground, hands dangling between partly-raised knees. “There’s not much I wouldn’t do…. if you asked me nicely.”

“What does—whatever!” she snapped, nose in the air. Did he think he could just mock her and get away with it? _I really should have just tried sneaking porn into the house. It would have been so much easier…._ “Don’t you dare think that you can hold this over my head later, Rivera!”

“Imelda—”

“I mean it! If you come back in a week and think you can say I—”

“ _Imelda_.” His hands landed on his waistband and she fell silent, burning head to toe with something… anticipation? Fear? “It’s okay.” His smile softened as he assured her, fingers running along the cloth clasp that hid the buttons from view. “You trust me, right?” Even as she fought to inhale, the answer slid out of her in a rush of breath.

“Yes.”

“Then I trust you, too.” With a flick, the clasp fell open. Two metal buttons, and a zipper beneath them. A pathetic barrier glinting in the shadows of the waving canopy. She stared unabashedly at his groin, khaki-covered and smooth; there was a small bulge, barely noticeable and almost innocent in its insignificance. “Uh…” He paused, fingers on the buttons, and she saw his face darken with the beginnings of another blush. “Erm… do you mind just… looking away? While I do this?”

“Oh… sure.” This was fine; now there wouldn’t have to be any weird eye contact while he extracted himself—for lack of a better term. She scrunched her eyes shut like a kid, shoulders hunched and nose wrinkled as she waited for the go-ahead to look. The first _zpppp_ of his zipper, loud in the otherwise silent clearing, made her jump foolishly. Her hands tightened into fists on her thighs, jaw clenching in determination.

 _There’s no backing out now. You fought too hard for it._ A strange eagerness, tempered with uncertainty, sent her heart dancing behind her ribcage. What would she see when she opened her eyes? She knew the basics, of course; years of chasing after her little brothers had made that a certainty. But this wasn’t the body of a little boy. Even if he didn’t act like one, Héctor was a man. And a man’s body… a man’s penis…. It was as scary as it was exciting.

“I—I, um… okay. You can open your eyes now.” Was this what it felt like to be on one of those roller coasters? She’d never been on one before, but she was sure this is what it was to be on the front row, perched on top of the first hill and staring down into the steep drop. She knew what was coming, and yet it wasn’t until it happened that she would fully understand. _Might as well get the first shock over with… if it’s a shock at all._

Gulping, she gathered her resolve and opened her eyes.

Her first instinct was to look directly at his groin, everything inside of her screaming _just get it over with_! However, she couldn’t help but notice his face first; whatever lay between his thighs would have to wait. His chin was pressed against his right shoulder, his eyes locked firmly on a spot somewhere in the bushes. A faint pink slowly gathered on his cheeks: the tips of his ears, his nose, even his chin darkening.

His gaze flickered towards her, just long enough to see that she was looking directly at him. A little thrill went through her as the color doubled in his cheeks, brow wrinkling; he quickly turned back to whatever he’d been staring at, swallowing hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swift dip, the movement drawing her inquisitive eyes down towards the column of his throat. 

His throat was equally interesting. Thin lines of muscle, running down to bridge at his shoulders, working in unison as he swallowed and tensing along with his jaw. The tic of his pulse, blood pumping just beneath the skin—oh, the _skin._ Unmarred and smooth, with a few dark patches close to his jaw and his ears where the uneven hair he’d shaved was already starting to grow back. Her mouth grew dry, alarm bells clanging in the back of her mind. Why was something as simple as a neck— _his_ neck—so distracting all of a sudden?

Her eyes went further south, to his chest. The two sharp raised lines that made his collarbone, a jutting boundary between the smooth, sun-kissed skin below his throat and a dusting of wiry chest hair. He didn’t have much, at least not yet; she knew boys who were proud of the thick carpet on their chests, so heavy that it was impossible to see the skin beneath. His was still sparse, but what little he had was curly and dark. It tangled on his flat pecs, dampened with sweat from the afternoon heat and sticking to the skin beneath. Flat nipples, a few shades darker than the skin around them, gave way to the outline of his ribs.

His shirt, hanging open at the sides, still covered the majority of his ribcage. Their presence was reduced to shadows, small curves that appeared with every breath. More hair, even scanter than what lay on his chest, flared slightly around his navel in a natural trail leading to his stomach. Her mouth grew even drier at the sight; a part of her wondered how it could even be possible, when she hadn’t been thirsty all afternoon.

His stomach had a naturally sloping contour, the shape of his lowest ribs defined by his diaphragm. She’d thought, skinny as he was, that his belly would be the rock-hard, defined abdomen she saw in the magazines her friends passed around at sleepovers. But there were no washboard abs in sight. Instead it was flat, and looked curiously soft to the touch. Her fingers twitched on her thigh, eyes following the concave bend that disappeared into the loose waistband of his opened slacks.

From the smooth valley, the lines of his hips rose in a sharp vee, outlining the expanse of his stomach until it met his sides in two gangly hipbones. The point of the vee culminated in the biggest, darkest patch of hair on his body—aside, she supposed, from his eyebrows—at the apex of his thighs. And there, in the center, jutting from the dark curls…. She resisted the urge to nervously lick her lips, staring openly at the—at his—

 _His penis, Imelda. His dick, his cock,_ she scolded herself. _This is no time to be a prude._ It was true, but none of the words seemed to mesh well with her mental image of Héctor. Those were words used at the doctor’s, or in porn. Even the romance novels she and her friends snuck to school, the dirty parts bookmarked and highlighted, hardly ever used those bold, brazen words. Still….

 _Fine._ His cock, then. She fought the blush that rose with the term, willing herself to be mature enough to say it in her mind, if not aloud. His cock, seated in its nest of black curls, resting demurely in his cupped palm. Fleshier than she expected, the same warm color as the rest of his skin, with his long fingers wrapped carefully around the shaft. His balls were half-hidden behind bony knuckles, and from the folds of skin near the tip poked something… darker.

 _The head,_ her mind supplied with a start. She hadn’t given a single thought to whether or not Héctor was circumcised. Raquel’s boyfriend, she quickly remembered, was also uncircumcised; her friend had spoken about the foreskin before, and how it covered some of the more sensitive parts. Looking at it, she felt a strange curiosity. Did all men feel the same sensitivity there? Was Héctor incredibly sensitive? How would she go about finding that out? She didn’t trust herself to ask, not without being asked in return why she cared.

She didn’t know why she cared… but she did.

To her relief, the longer she stared the easier it was to look at. After all, in the end it was just… well, it looked—the point was, she could stare at it without getting embarrassed. Maybe by the time her friends bothered to ask her any questions, she could even talk about it without flushing. But… she realized, quite suddenly, that she had no way of knowing if he were average or not. Sure, it _looked_ long, reaching past his fingers and dangling towards the ground, but how long was long? Was he the average male size, or bigger, or—God forbid he was _smaller_!

“O-okay. You’ve s-seen it now.” Héctor’s voice jumped higher than usual, nearly squeaking in his nervousness. He moved to cover up, his free hand digging past his thighs in search of his boxers. She drew in an involuntary breath, a flurry of panic running through her at the sight; he missed it, the sound hidden under his pants’ heavy rustling.

“¡ _Espera_!” The exclamation forced its way out of her, sounding loud after their hushed voices. Sure, she’d seen it, but she wasn’t finished seeing it! There was still curiosity to be sated, other angles, questions she wanted to ask. She wasn’t here to half-ass this; if she had to lie to her peers to save her own virtue, well… _no hay más remedio_. But she would know exactly what she was talking about. There was no room for doubt.

“¿ _Para qué_?” He sat frozen, eyes wide in his thin face. It was a comical look, with his bushy eyebrows all scrunched and mouth hanging open. She cleared her throat, rising to her knees before regarding him with what she hoped was a calm expression. Grass stuck to the back of her skirt, sweat pooling beneath her arms and on the back of her neck.

“I want a closer look,” she all but demanded, trying to sound more impatient than eager. The reason behind her eagerness was unclear; usually her brothers were the ones engrossed in their little experiments. Science was far from her favorite subject, even if she did excel in it. But, then again, this was far more interesting than the usual fare. There were so many hypotheses…. Would Héctor object to an impromptu interview? It would be a little weird, with his cock hanging out like that, but surely he could find no qualms with showing her a bit about how it worked.

“C-Closer!?” His legs again jerked towards his chest, hunkering in a clearly protective stance. She paused, balancing on her knees, and waited until he managed to speak. “How much closer do you think you’re going to get?” It wasn’t meant to sound like a challenge; his voice was high and reedy, breaking like a preteen’s. It grated on her ears, and despite whatever he _meant_ it to be, she took it as a challenge nonetheless. Nostrils flaring, she dropped onto her palms and began crawling towards him. Ankles nearly crossed, she kept her legs high to keep the grass stains from her white school socks as she crept towards him with scowling, single-minded purpose.

“As close as I please,” she snapped, reaching his side and flopping onto the grass beside him. He cringed away, relaxing slowly when she showed no further signs of movement. They sat side by side, hips barely touching and staring straight ahead while the moment settled. One part of her was amazed that she was able to be so bold, so… nonchalant about the whole thing— _then again_ , a smaller voice snickered, _you’ve also stopped looking at his groin, haven’t you_?

“Uh—” He jumped when she turned to look at him, her ponytail smacking against his shoulder. She rolled her eyes, slumping more of her weight onto her hands with a frown. 

“You act like I’m going to bite you or something,” she reproached, mouth pursed. He didn’t reply, chewing on his lower lip as he searched her face. Their eyes met: his uncertain, hers determined, each sizing the other up. He looked away first. “I just want to look,” she huffed, nearly whining. She sounded like a spoiled brat, but it wasn’t enough to keep her from adding, “What’s the difference between looking over there, and looking over here?”

“I should be asking _you_ that!” he pointed out, hands splayed on his knees. “What is the difference?” Her breath came out in a low hiss, nose wrinkling; of all the times for him to be throwing her own words back at her! And of _course_ she couldn’t think up a good excuse. She hunched her shoulders, stewing for a moment. Why couldn’t he just stop arguing and make this easy?

 _Then again, he was always just as stubborn as—_ she refused to finish that thought. She was not stubborn, no matter what her parents said. And her friends. And her teachers, her schoolmates, her brothers—

“ _Ay_ , if you’re going to pout….” She looked just to see _his_ eyes rolling, exhaling through his nose with a put-upon sigh.

“I’m not pouting!” The look he gave her was enough to prevent any further denial; alright, so maybe she was pouting a _little_ , but only because he kept interfering with her study! A good guinea pig would just shut up and let her look to her heart’s content! He wouldn’t be so—so— _H_ _é_ _ctor_! Stupid, ridiculous, thinking he was so witty with his little bantering and crooked grins and—

His legs fell open and, oddly enough, every thought she had ground to an immediate halt. The strange dry feeling in her mouth came back full force, along with a weird tingling that ran down her spine. She sat up straighter, heart in her throat, and gathered the courage to openly peer down over his left knee. After a minute’s pondering, she dismissed her bizarre reaction as delayed excitement for getting her way.

“See?” she managed to say, her voice tight in the back of her throat. “I don’t know why you were so overdramatic about this.” He didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer, his eyes turned to the leafy canopy above them. He tensed when she scooted closer, his bony hip digging into the meat of her upper thigh.

Peering around his arm, she scrutinized him from this new, closer angle. Maybe she was just getting used to it—exposure therapy?—but he didn’t seem as large up close. Less formidable, certainly. There was a little spot she hadn’t seen before, a dot hidden behind his pinkie… a freckle? _How does someone get a freckle on their penis? He had to have—_

She pulled herself out of those thoughts with a little shake, setting aside the mental images of skinny-dipping and naked sunbathing for another time. In their absence, a startling thought brewed. _I want to touch… that freckle._ As childlike as the impulse was, the ones following it were decidedly less so. _What does it feel like? Warm? Soft? It looks soft. And smooth, probably. Does he moisturize—he would, wouldn’t he? Boys use lotion for that, right? Does that count as—_

Nostrils flaring, she clenched her jaw and forced the thoughts out of her mind. That wasn’t what she was here for, and she wasn’t about to waste a question with something as idiotic as freckles and penis skincare routine. She had to play her cards right; this was probably the only chance she’d have until she was ready to lose her virginity. As for touching him, that was something else altogether. He was already nervous enough as it was, and she was only looking. Touching was off the table… right?

“I want to ask a question.” Her chin bumped against his bicep; she let it rest there, pressing into the crisp sleeve of his shirt as she turned her face up to him. He glanced over, their faces close enough that she could see things she’d never noticed before: the uneven smattering of freckles over his cheeks, the curl of his lower lashes, the slope of his jaw, her own startled, curious reflection in his irises.

“Um.” The sound brushed her cheeks in a warm puff of air. She hadn’t been this close to a boy since the time she kissed Santiago Rodríguez on a dare. Her eyes dropped to his lips at the thought, remembering the rough scratch of Santiago’s mouth against her own behind the ballfield. Héctor’s, on the other hand—a little chapped, true, but they didn’t look _terrible._ What would it be like to kiss him? What would he do if she leaned up and closed the gap between them? Why was she even thinking these things to begin with?!  

“Okay… I mean, I guess.” He swallowed, tongue darting across his lower lip with a swipe so fast, she nearly missed it. “Go ahead.” He didn’t seem uncomfortable enough to push her away; in fact, he didn’t seem uncomfortable about that at all. His nerves were for her inquiries, not her nearness. He was alright with her leaning on him this way?

Then again, why shouldn’t he be? They’d been touching their whole friendship. She couldn’t count the times they’d piled together on her bed, thumbing through kids magazines and eating the entire box of snack cakes they’d snuck from the kitchen. Or slumped in the shade outside the movie theater, shoulder to shoulder as they waited for the groaning, rusty sound of Papá’s old jalopy. Their whole lives had been splashing in the river, running through the woods together, tackling and wrestling and _touching_. There was no reason for nervousness.

Then… why was she getting nervous?

“What I want to ask is—” She forced her eyes back to his sex, laying so sweetly in his curled palm. Now that she thought about it, it really was just another one of his body parts. Long, smooth, a little awkward to look at, probably easily bruised… though of course she had no desire to see _that_.

Letting out a low breath, she considered the best way to ask her question. Blunt was probably the best option, even if it sounded ruder. She wanted to be more personal, shedding some of the scientific frigidness, but she didn’t know how to do it without coming across as too… interested.

_Am I interested?_

_No, of course not_ , she immediately berated herself. _This is **H**_ ** _é_** ** _ctor_** _. I am not interested in H_ _é_ _ctor Rivera._ Unwittingly, her eyes roamed back to the sharp lines of his face. Her fingers twitched, itching to reach out and trace the angle of his cheekbones, to feel the smooth shadows created by dim sunlight. Her fingertips danced over them in her mind, counting the freckles from his nose all the way to his ears.

“¿ _S_ _í_?” He pulled her out of her fantasy— _no, not a fantasy, just a little… lapse—_ smiling anxiously when she gaped up at him. “A-aren’t you going to ask me something?”  

“What I want to ask is—” she tried again, the words tumbling clumsily from her lips, “—is… if you’d show me how you….” She hesitated, inhaling sharply before taking the plunge. “How you get it up.” She’d never seen someone’s jaw fall open before, but there was no other way to describe the way his lips parted, chin hanging and eyebrows jumping high on his forehead.

“What?” His voice was little more than a wheeze, lungs emptying in her face with a sputter. Immediately she leaned back, wiping flecks of saliva from her cheek with a scowl. “ _What_?!” he repeated, croaking loud enough that a bird above them rose into the air with a frantic caw.

“Nothing!” She cringed back, every bone in her body focused on not frizzing her ponytail into an untamed mess. She’d clearly just crossed a line, and now there was no going back. There was no way to play it off, or pretend she’d said something else. She couldn’t even act like it was a joke at this point. “I just thought—well, if someone asked me later about—you know—” she mumbled, nearly tearing her hair out of the loose tie as she wound it around her fingers.

“Let me get this straight.” He ran both hands through his hair, pulling at his temples with a muted groan. “Y-you want… you want to watch me _jack off_?” Utterly humiliated, she was reduced to little more than a too-awkward shrug. She picked at her nails, eyes locked on her peeling cuticles as she let out an undignified noise that was meant to be casual and nonchalant. “You said you only wanted to look!” he added, accusing. His expression was guarded, suspicion and doubt replacing the shy, sweet uncertainty that had been so evident across the clearing.

“I did—I mean, I do!” She picked harder, resisting the urge to chew on her thumbnails as she searched for something to say that would diffuse the situation. “I didn’t say you had to… to finish,” she pointed out, barely able to rise above a mumble. “I just—never mind. It was a dumb question.” There was only one option to choose, the one that would save what little shred of dignity she had left: go home, right now. “Come on, let’s just get out of here.”

Now it was her turn to rise to her knees, grabbing for her bag. She turned to the tunnel, ready to make a beeline for the exit. She wanted to get out of the clearing and _run_ : through the woods, through the edge of town, through Santa Cecilia, all the way home. She wouldn’t stop running until she was in her room with the door locked, huddled beneath every blanket she owned and slowly dying of embarrassment.

His hand grabbed her wrist, fingers squeezing until she stopped mid-crouch. She looked over her shoulder to see his face as red as her own, eyes pleading with her to stay. It was the eyes that always did it; no matter how angry she was at him, or how annoyed, or embarrassed, or—or—or _anything_ , those eyes stopped her from dismissing him entirely. Those sweet brown eyes, fringed by dark lashes, somehow able to see straight through her bluffs. 

He tugged her until she fell back, landing on her backside in the dent she’d made beside him. Her bag fell to the soft grass, items clinking inside. She stared blankly at it, tracing the stitched pattern on the strap with her eyes as she waited for him to say something. She had nothing to say, nothing that wouldn’t make her feel even worse off, and she was sure there was nothing _he_ could say that would improve the situation any, either—

“Do you have anything that’s slick?” 

For a long moment, she thought she hadn’t heard him right. Surely he hadn’t—had he? She tore her eyes from her bag, looking at him through her ponytail. He let her hand go, fingers sliding from her wrist; the feel of his calloused fingertips, where the bandages couldn’t reach, against her skin sent a thrill up her arm. Her heart skipped a beat, jumping into her throat.

 “You—you’re going to—do it?” she choked.

“If you really want me to,” he conceded, chewing at his lip. She watched his teeth as it worried the flesh, tugging before letting it bounce back. “If you ask me to.” An abrupt sensation filled her mind, blotting out every other thought: those flat teeth nibbling at _her_ lip instead, his tongue swiping a wet, soothing trial in their wake.

She recognized the move from her favorite _libro erótico_. It was the scene where the heroine is first swept off her feet by her rakish lover. She’d never thought of herself in a situation like that, but now, substituting herself and Héctor— _H_ _é_ _ctor!_ Of all people! Of all the guys at her school, in her town, in her _country_ …. Her traitorous brain wasn’t through with her, supplying endless girlish fantasies one after the other: beaches, countrysides, the flowing white clothing of romance novel covers, his lanky arms gathering her up against his bare chest, passion-filled gazes intended to make her swoon—

“I have hand lotion in my bag.” She winced at the sound of it. He probably thought she’d planned this for weeks, but that wasn’t the case at all. It wasn’t preemptive; she carried her favorite coconut hand cream year-round, taking pride in preparedness. One never knew when lotion would be needed in a pinch: dry skin, stuck jewelry, static-y clothing, it even removed stubborn stickers… and it smelled good to boot.

She peered into the shadowy darkness of her schoolbag, shoving aside her debate club notebook in search of the inner pocket’s zipper. Half her arm disappeared inside the bag as she dug inside the pocket, feeling over the mishmash of items impatiently: mascara tubes, hair ties, a myriad of pencils and pens, spare sanitary napkins, half a packet of Kleenex, and countless discarded jewelry. She flinched back from an earring that tried to lodge beneath her fingernail, and the back of her palm brushed over the smooth, cold tube of lotion.

She pulled it out, checking automatically to make sure there was enough. The tube was over half full, the gold edging around the label glinting brightly in the sunlight. _Organic Hand and Nail Cream: Virgin Coconut_. She felt a rush of warmth at the wording, biting the tip of her tongue until she tasted iron. If he said a single word about _virgin_ , then she’d… she’d….

“Here.” She swallowed the taste of blood, tossing her bag to the side and ignoring the papers that threatened to spill over the grass. She turned back to him, hand outstretched, cupping the tube in her palm nearly the same way he cupped himself. He faltered, looking from her hand to her face and back again. She watched the muscle in his jaw tic, remembering his earlier words. _There’s not much I wouldn’t do…. if you asked me nicely._ Sucking in her lower lip, she resolved herself to the small loss of her pride. “Show me… _por favor,_ Héctor.” 

“ _S_ - _s_ _í_.” He took the tube from her hand, taking care that he touched only the tube, and not her as well. She didn’t blame him; something about the thought of their hands brushing made her feel all jumpy and anxious. It was bad enough that her wrist still tingled where he’d grabbed it, prickly hot just beneath her skin.

He looked at the tube, letting out an involuntary snort when he saw the name; she barely resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands, disguising the involuntary movement as an attempt to brush back her hair. She tensed at the sharp _pop_ of the tube’s lid, looking through her fingers to see him cautiously sniffing at the top. He paused, eyes widening, and then she watched in amazement as his face deepened in a dangerously dark flush.

“I-is something wrong?” She cleared her throat a little too loudly, gulping before biting the skin around her thumbnail. His eyes flickered to her and he ducked his head, hair flopping everywhere as he shook it wildly.

“N-no! It’s just… it smells like you.” He took a moment to twist the bandages off his right hand, shoving them deep into his pocket with a huff before squirting a sizeable amount of lotion into his palm. She caught the scent of the coconut, fresh in the forest air, and watched as he rubbed it between his palms with an almost thoughtful expression. It squelched as he pressed his hands together, wiping his left hand on his slacks and pulling his dry, chaffed callouses through the white goop.

He jerked when she inched closer, closing the space between them once more. She waited for him to tell her to stop, or to lean back, or move away; he did none of those things, even when their hips were again pressed flush to each other. He shifted against her uncomfortably, legs flat to the ground, and rested his weight on his free hand. She tucked her knees to the side, drawing her hair over her far shoulder so it wouldn’t be in the way. 

She stared at the white steaks of lotion on his fingers, pooled in his palm and greasy on the edges of his hand. Was that what… _it_ … looked like? _Egg whites,_ her more experienced friends laughed. She thought of the clear, sticky liquid that pooled around a raw egg yolk, slime sliding from her fingers into the sink and disappearing down the drain when she rinsed off her hands. She couldn’t imagine anything like that coming from anyone, much less Héctor.

He inhaled slowly, blowing it through clenched teeth before trying to smile at her. It didn’t work, his grin falling flat with every passing second. She tried to rouse herself as well, managing a small smile that—if her clenched facial muscles were as tight as they felt—looked more painful than encouraging. Painful or not, he accepted it with a terse nod.

Turning to his groin, he let out another hard exhale. She watched with bated breath, lungs burning, waiting for the first contact the same way Ernesto waited for fireworks on Independence Day. Her breath caught in her throat when he ran his hand down the shaft, over the head and back towards the nest of curls at its base.

He repeated the motion absently, shoulders sagging with a muted sigh. His eyes were locked across the clearing, staring at nothing with a faint flush still visible on his cheeks. She could imagine him like this in his bedroom, the thick tangle of branches replaced by a paper-thin apartment wall. Did he do it while Ernesto was home? Or did he wait until he was alone, where he could indulge his thoughts without being interrupted?

He had to be lost in his own mind; no one sat and watched empty space like that, even if they _were_ masturbating. What did he think about, when he touched himself? _Who_ did he think about? Celebrities? Actresses? The scantily-clad women in magazines? Or was it someone closer, someone more… accessible? Would he even tell her, if she asked?

She watched, utterly enraptured as her eyes tracing the firm press of his fingers down his shaft. Her heart sped up with every stroke, thumping heavily behind her breastbone as she watched the smooth motion of his foreskin as it followed his hand before sliding easily into place. He glistened from the lotion, the bright sheen on his skin growing darker as the blood rushed to thrum beneath his fingertips. His index finger tapped along the barely-visible vein, thumbing over the slit and rubbing slowly until his thighs tensed.

She went back to his face, staring up through her lashes at the narrow curve of his jaw. It twitched, muscles popping every time he clenched his back teeth. She pressed closer, lips parted to inhale the aroma of coconut and something else, something muskier, that seemed to come directly from his skin. The mingled scents were intoxicating, errant thoughts running through her mind unchecked as she let it fill her.

She wanted to lean against his shoulder. She wanted to press her face to his neck, feeling his pulse as it leapt beneath her cheek. She wanted to taste his skin, drinking up the clean sweat and soap until her dry mouth was quenched. She wanted all of these things, and more—things she didn’t even know about yet, things her body craved without her knowledge, instinct guiding her thoughts.

Her heart was hammering now, beating against her ribcage. A knot of tension had made itself known in her lower stomach, burrowing deep against her intestines until she could feel it every time she shifted on the grass. She pressed her thighs together, trying to soothe the frustrating, aching sensations boiling in her guts. A breeze ran over her bare arms and she shivered, nestling closer against his side; the heat radiated through his clothing, burning into her arm.

What would it be like to run her hands beneath the protective shield of his shirt? To feel all that bare skin, _yards_ of it, all burning hot and so, so smooth? What would he say if she crawled onto his lap right now, pressing her palms to either side of his spine and pulling his chest flush with her own? They would be so close; his big, dumb face would be right next to hers, and his body was tall enough to curve around her, and she might eventually get warm even if she let him take her shirt off, too—

“Imelda.” Her name was hardly more than a whisper, but it caught her immediate attention. Her eyes snapped from his chest to his face, cheeks warm and head light. She’d been thinking about crawling on top of him? There were so many things wrong with that, she couldn’t even _begin_ to count them. After all, it was Héctor, and this wasn’t anything purely sexual between them… right? _Right_ , she affirmed. They were just two friends, leaning on each other in the forest. As platonic as could be.

It didn’t matter that she was starting to doubt the sincerity of those words. She’d just think about it later, when his pants weren’t down.

“What?” _No more thoughts._ For now, she had to focus on the handiwork itself… not the boy doing it. She was mature, she could distance herself from the emotional aspect.

“Y-You’re not even watching,” he scolded, face contorting in a sheepish grimace. He didn’t look directly at her, his gaze hovering between the thick expanse of brambles and the untrimmed grass. “You’re just s-staring at _me_ ,” he added, voice catching on a soft hitch. Guiltily, she let her eyes drop back to his groin; he was right, of course. She should be watching… she frowned, mouth pursing at the lack of progress.

“Nothing’s happening?” she blurted, trying to make excuse for her lapse in attention. This was apparently rude, so much so that she found herself on the receiving end of a rare Héctor Rivera _glare_. His brows twisted, furrowing over his nose as his lips pressed into a thin line. He rested his wrist, fingers wrapping around the shaft for a light squeeze.

“It’s not my fault,” he muttered, incensed. “It doesn’t mean—it’s a lot harder when you’re being watched!” He cleared his throat, rubbing his long nose on his far shoulder with a sniff. “Let’s see _you_ get wet when your—” he stopped midsentence, gulping before shaking his shoulders with a short jerk.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m just…. _Créase o no_ , I’m not used to an audience.”

“What, do you need help?” She’d meant it to be a snappy comeback, something to break the tension shimmering in the air between them. If he was irritated, he was less likely to be nervous, and then—no, that was _her_ , not him. Still, his eyes widened and she felt herself blush hard, everything from the roots down burning hot. It had sounded an awful lot like a suggestion… or, even worse, an offer.  

 They each sized the other up, his hand still on his cock and hers trembling on her lap. Their faces were close, noses brushing when he took a deep, sudden breath. Again the thought crossed her mind that it would be so easy—too easy—to lean up and press her lips to his, to taste the apprehension in his frown. A shudder ran down her spine, warmth filling her from the center out and leaving the hair raised on her arms.

This would be going back on her word. After all, hadn’t he said it himself? She’d promised only to look. Touching would be going a step further, a step past what she’d planned for. This was unknown territory. But the thought of it—the thought of taking him into her hands, of putting her fingers were his had been, of feel the sticky-smooth lotion and what lay coated beneath…. If they went that far, there would be no turning back. It wasn’t an experiment anymore if she touched him.

It would be an encounter.

“¿ _Qué dijiste_?” He swallowed shakily, smile trembling. Anxiety, fear, confusion, disbelief; his expression managed to hold all of them at once, each one taking its turn at the forefront while he waited for her answer. She licked her lips, stalling for time and unsure of how to reply. How could she say anything? How could she be this bold, to say something so openly suggestive while still so unsure of her own feelings?

It had been a slipup, and one that could potentially cost her dearly. She hadn’t foreseen this weakness on her part; she was bumbling and blushing like a teenage girl! Well, okay: she _was_ a teenage girl, but she definitely had the mental capacity of someone several years her senior! _This shouldn’t be happening to me, I’m not—H_ _é_ _ctor isn’t—_ For the first time, a tiny voice in her piped up to give its opinion. _Maybe I am interested… just a little…._

“I said….” As she watched, gathering her thoughts, his gaze fell to her mouth. He followed the curve of her lips as she spoke, a carmine spark flickering in his dark irises. It was something hungry, yearning, a _want_ ; he blinked and it was gone, hidden before she could understand its purpose. “I want to help.”

“’Melda—”

“Can I?” She knew full well that this was no suggestion. _This_ was a request. His eyes widened even further in blatant shock, but there was no panic, no denial, no burst of anger and embarrassment. She leaned up, her hand sneaking beneath his arm to press against the firm, cool ground and hold the brunt of her weight.

She was so much smaller than him, but he wasn’t moving away or trying to deter her. Even when her chest met his ribs, breasts pressing lightly into the bony meat of his underarm, he was still stoic—frozen, perhaps, or simply unwilling to lean away. Her entire body burned icy hot, his furnace-like body at her front and shade-cooled air at her back, aided by the prickly, aching heat in her core. She wanted to see that spark of fire in his eyes again. She wanted to let it kindle, then burn, then consume, until she could read what it meant.

“Let me help,” she implored him, still remembering the words he’d said. _If you asked me nicely._  Maybe he hadn’t meant them as advice, but it was sure coming in handy now. _There’s not much I wouldn’t do…._ There was so much she wanted him to do, so much she was afraid to ask for. There was something vulnerable in not only asking for help, but asking for the _permission_ to help. “¿ _Por favor_?”

Her mouth found the corner of his as she spoke, half chapped lips and half smooth cheek. He jolted beneath her, lips parting in a little gasp. There was only enough courage inside her to linger a moment, her upper lip brushing the gap as she retreated. Still, she remained close enough that his breath tickled her cheeks, staring at his nose without a word. Every inhale she managed stuck, singeing her throat when she forced it out. 

“Imelda?” Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the clearing as she raised her head to find his gaze. A dazed look softened the corners of his mouth, eyelids lowered until he watched her through his long lashes. He bent to meet her now, pausing only once to make sure she didn’t plan on moving away. His lips were poised above hers, waiting; she gently bumped her mouth against his until they were moving in a slow, clumsy kiss.

A clammy warmth covered her jaw and she flinched away from it with a gasp, shoulder rubbing unconsciously at the intrusion. She relaxed when she saw his lotion-smeared hand, still hovering in the air. He laughed, trying to smother the sound behind a forced _ahem_ , and wiped his hand carelessly on his slacks. Blushing, she turned to scold him for startling her; her face heated further at the sight of his flushed cheeks, his smirk smeared a sticky pink-red from her lip gloss. His tongue darted to wet his lips, lingering when he tasted the strawberry flavor she’d left behind.

“That wasn’t funny.” It was hard to find any anger to throw behind the words; the bubbling tumult of emotion she’d had earlier had vanished someplace, left by thousands of fluttering wings. It was like the monarch migration, only inside of her. She’d _kissed_ him, she’d kissed Héctor Rivera. There was no denying it; the proof gleamed at her from his lower lip. And what was worse… she wanted to do it again. And again. And _again_.

“I’m sorry.” Sure, he _sounded_ repentant, but how could he be when that damned smug grin of his suggested otherwise? She really hated that expression, and all it stood for; that smirk reminded her that he knew her, knew exactly how to push her buttons, and knew how to get away with it every time.

Even now he was leaning forward again, surer of himself as he closed the space between them. To his credit, he shot one cursory glance to make sure she was still alright with this— _thing_ happening between them. She didn’t pull away, pride and willpower overcoming any shyness or aversion. Besides, it hadn’t been bad; quite the opposite, really. _He’s actually a pretty good kisser…._

“Whatever,” she mumbled into his mouth, in reply to both his apology and her own deviant thoughts. Just because she was giving into this didn’t mean she couldn’t have the last word. His only response was an unintelligible hum, tickling her lips as he tilted his head further. He deepened the kiss with firm, perfect pressure; what little resistance she had melted away with the answering rush of warmth between her thighs, every nerve ending alight as her eyes slid shut.

She unthinkingly pressed up into him, her hands finding his shirt and gripping the two loose ends tightly in her fingers. She could taste a hint of the hunger she’d seen in his eyes, his lips catching at hers in a way that nearly had her reduced to a quivering puddle. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, slick with strawberry and a hint of pepper from his spiced lunch; she was rewarded with a softer moan, rumbling in his chest.

He broke them apart first, his hand resting where her neck met her shoulder. She unconsciously followed him until she was on her knees, feeling disheveled although he hadn’t done anything to her hair or clothing. Her lips still tingled, gloss on the corners of her mouth and even some on her chin from when he’d caught her lower lip between his. She felt no urge to wipe it away; it was a reminder of what they’d just done, what they were _doing_.

“You really want to… touch me?” he asked, his hand finding hers and squeezing. His hand was easily able to cover hers entirely, his palm sticky with sweat and lotion. Her breath caught in her throat, hand lying limp in his. Did she? He was still giving her time to back out, to say she’d changed her mind and didn’t want to do this anymore.

“I… _s_ _í_. I do.” She was eager and nervous and afraid, an odd combination to say the least. She was going in blind; even her romance novels were no real help here. There was such a difference between reading about it and the real thing; she didn’t need to touch him to know that. But she couldn’t turn back now, not when she’d already come so far.

“Have you… ever? Before?” He sucked in his cheeks, watching her carefully. _With anyone else—_ unspoken words, hanging in the air between them. She looked at him, wincing at the keen, anxious expression written on his face; he wore his heart on his sleeve, and now was clearly no exception.

“I told you,” she huffed, tossing her hair until her ponytail swung between her shoulders. “I’m a virgin. Remember?” Then again… did hand jobs count towards sex? It’s not as though she’d get pregnant from jacking him off. Sure, it _felt_ sinful and intimate, but maybe that was her own guilt talking. Sixteen years of being force-fed sermons, lectures from her mother, and whispers from the older grades were all at war against each other. Three different opinions, but… which was the right one to have?

“Oh, right!” His jumpy exclamation tore her from her thoughts. “Me too. Virgin, I mean.”

“You said that already,” she pointed out.

“Right.” Again they were at a stalemate, staring at each other rather than just getting on with it. _At this rate we’ll be here until midnight,_ she thought, sighing internally. _Mamá will expect me home by sundown… come on, H_ _é_ _ctor: speed it up! I thought guys were all about taking charge in the bedroom!_ Then again, one could hardly call this a bedroom.  

“Your hand….” His voice dropped to a low rumble, the sound going straight to her core. “It’s trembling. Are you—scared?”

“No.” _Yes_. _A little._ “Of course not. I’m only…” _Nervous. Ready. Definitely **not** ready. _“Waiting on you. That’s all.”

“Of course,” he parroted, glancing at their hands. “Um… here—” With his free hand, he pulled her by the shoulder until she was nestled into the crook of his arm. She froze, her face to the side of his chest; his heart was a wild, steady rhythm beneath her ear, muffled only by the uneven hitch of his breath. _Casual,_ her mind chided, but she was already relaxing against him in a way that seemed natural.

_Too natural._

Smiling shakily, he drew her hand over his hip and between his thighs. Her eyes followed the movement, widening at what she now saw. She’d only looked away a short time, but he’d changed so much! He was _certainly_ bigger than before, jutting out partway from his body as if held up by an invisible hand. The head glistened, emerging slowly from the protective folds of foreskin, bobbing slightly as he breathed.

She stared, amazed at how quickly the change had come over him; had he been that affected by her kisses? A swell of vanity coursed through her, pride at her own skill. Despite the lack of recent practice, she was clearly still a damn good kisser! _Or,_ the tiny voice in her head piped up, _he’s just into you._

She jolted at the thought, taken aback by her own notion. She’d never considered it before, but— All those strange looks, those soft smiles, the way he’d jumped when she mentioned pinning him down….

Suddenly, a lot of things were starting to make sense.

 _H_ _éctor likes me_? The thought was immediately followed with another, more arrogant one. _Of course he does! What guy in his right mind would be able to resist me?_ However, that pride was quickly tempered by concern, confusion. _If he likes me, I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be making things worse. I mean, it’s not like I like him or anything… right?_ There was just one teensy little problem with that: she didn’t _want_ to stop.

How long had he had feelings for her? Moreover, how was she supposed to let him down after touching him in such an intimate area? _Well, he agreed to it with no strings attached, didn’t he?_ the cynical part of her mind chimed in. That was true; she’d made it clear that it was just to sate her curiosity; then again, she’d also made it clear that she only wanted to watch, and yet she was now an active, willing participant.

“¡ _E_ - _Espera_!” He immediately paused, his fingers loosening to where she could pull away if she wanted to. Her mind flashed to his lotion-smeared palm, the tang of coconut mixed with soap and neomycin and Héctor. “Don’t you need more—I mean, _do you—_ ”

“Hmm?”

“The—the lotion.” She fumbled, looking around for where he’d put the tube. The last thing she wanted was for Héctor to remember this as the time she chafed his dick. His skin would eventually soak up what lotion he’d rubbed on there, and she didn’t want to start off with straight, burning friction. She wasn’t trying to start a campfire.

Besides, if he ever told something like that to anyone (Ernesto), well: she’d never be able to live it down, even if she reached a hundred years old.

“ _’ta bien_ , Imelda,” he chuckled. His voice echoed in his chest, loud beneath her ear. It sounded different than what came out of his mouth, deeper and more growly. _No one gets to hear that,_ she realized. _Only me._ The thought came with a possessive urge to _keep_ it that way, a secret only she knew about.

Keeping her ear flush to his ribs, she watched him guide her hand down to his cock. His fingers felt sure and steady around her fluttering ones; that alone gave her more confidence than she ever could have had on her own. He trusted her: why else would he so boldly wrap her hand—

¡ _Ay, dios mío_!

She sucked in a quick breath, biting down to keep from gasping aloud as he gently pressed her fingers around his shaft. He squeezed down, harder than she would have ever gripped him herself; before she could speak, the back of her hand grew cold as his hand let go. She froze, uncertain of how to move and unwilling to do anything unless she knew it wouldn’t hurt him… or make him laugh at her.

 _Warm,_ her first thought. Warm, dry, silky-smooth skin, throbbing beneath her gentle, hesitant touch. It was like holding… a sunbeam. She discarded the thought almost immediately; that was too poetic, too sappy. It was something he would say.

She unclenched her jaw, letting her fingers spread out into a more natural hold. His skin was so _soft_ , softer than she ever thought it would be. Was that the lotion, or was it always like this? The rest of him wasn’t this soft, it was— She felt his cock lurch beneath her fingers as she smoothed over it; her shoulders jerked, unable to hold in a surprised yelp.

 “It jumped?!” She watched as it twitched visibly in her hand, shock fading only to be replaced by genuine curiosity. Of course it had to do _something_ ; she wasn’t so green as to think men went straight from flaccid to erect. But not in a million years would she have believed they moved like… like this.

“Y-yeah.” He made a high-pitched sound in his throat, trying to balance his weight on one arm. His free hand lay on his thigh, fingers twitching irregularly against the crumped beige of his slacks. “It’ll do that when it’s… y’know.”

She _didn’t_ know, clearly, but she wasn’t about to argue with him right now. Her mind was better occupied; this was the kind of information she was looking for. This is why she’d wanted a living subject in the first place. Maybe the anatomy books would have told her the science behind an erection, but it wouldn’t have said a single word about jumping against her hand, or the way his pulse would be pushing against her fingers through his skin, or the _warmth_ of it.

“Are you alright?” She glanced up to see him watching her face carefully. His mouth cracked in a nervous smile. “You—you’re not moving. I just wanted to make sure….” He trailed off, foot kicking nervously at an uneven patch of grass.

“I—” It seemed weird to admit that she didn’t have the faintest clue on how to start. Did everyone feel this lost, their first time? “I don’t want to hurt you,” she blurted. It was partly true, at least. She’d feel terrible if her first hand job ended up really messing him up below the belt. _My first hand job…. Dios, I’m really about to give H_ _é_ _ctor a hand job? This is **so** not what I had planned for today! _

“You won’t,” he insisted, grinning. She let it slide, feeling that he was more laughing at himself than at her. “I mean, not unless you try to yank it off. I’m a lot sturdier than you think.” _Somehow, I doubt that._ Sturdier, nothing; she’d seen him drop like a stone after a misaimed fútbol hit him right between the legs just last week. She wasn’t about to start getting rough on accident and make a complete mockery of herself.

“Show me, then.” She looked at him expectantly, one brow arching. She tried to treat it as if this was no delicate business between them, nothing involving their emotions; it was easier if she pretended she was asking him to show her a tricky chord on his guitar. “I want to see what it is that guys like.”

“That’s a little hard,” he admitted, scratching his head with a frown. “Not everyone likes the same things, after all.” _Damn_ ; of course it had to be difficult like that. Men being one-trick ponies was apparently too much to expect. “And besides—”

“Why don’t you show me what you like?” she interrupted. He gaped, staring at her with wide, wondering eyes. “I-I mean, I am touching _you_ right now, after all,” she quickly added. It was the most logical place to start from, but... if she were honest with herself, that wasn’t the reason she wanted—no, _needed_ —to know.

She wanted him to feel good, for reasons she didn’t really understand. She wanted him to think of her when he touched himself, to remember how her hands felt when he had to use his own. To think of him alone in that apartment bedroom, his mind filled not with nameless women but with _her_ , her hands, her voice, her body— _dios_ , she was _wet_ thinking about it. She didn’t understand why she felt that way, but she did and she both hated and loved it.

“Erm… I don’t—”

“ _Por favor,_ Héctor… _enseñame_.” It should have been humiliating to ask him like that, her voice pleading and hungry, almost desperate in her sudden need for this to happen, and _now_. His reaction was worth any embarrassment: the way he nodded slowly even as he gulped, the tremor in his hand when it reached for hers once more…. It wasn’t demeaning, it was _gratifying_.

“It’s not that difficult,” he mumbled, blushing hard. His hand covered hers, fingers stroking the back of her palm. She noticed how long his fingers were compared to hers, his hand large enough that he could encircle himself without trying. She was having a hard time getting her thumb and middle finger to touch, and he wasn’t even fully hard yet! _He has to be larger than average; how else… how do women… there’s no way!_

“Hurry up and show me, then.” She licked her lips, prepared to be an attentive student. She was head of her class in everything else; getting the hang of this should be a piece of cake, if it was as easy as he made it sound. She kept her fingers loose and ready, prepared for him to push her in whatever way he pleased.

“You just—uh—kind of—” His hand slid hers down his shaft, remnants of lotion clinging to her fingers. She could feel him changing, growing harder beneath the soft, smooth skin. She wanted to grip him, to really _feel_ the silk-sheathed steel all the romance novels spoke of, but was afraid of clamping down too hard.

They reached the base, unable to go further. She stared at his pelvis, wondering what it would be like to run her fingers through the wild curls covering the skin nearly up to his stomach. The rough, wiry hair scratched at her knuckles invitingly, the skin of his testicles tickling her pinkie. “Squeeze,” he urged her softly, his voice dropping an octave.

“Like this?” She squeezed the base lightly, afraid to put too much pressure on his shaft. He pulsed thickly in her hand; her fingers tightened unconsciously, craving the feel of his heartbeat. She could hear it racing just under her ear, along with a little gasp escaping his parted lips. Instantly she loosened her hold, alarmed. “Too much?” She tried to keep her voice level, cursing herself for hurting him on her first try.

“No! N-no, it—it’s fine.” He sounded breathless, everything from his hair down glowing a bright red. His arms shook, elbow locking as he leaned against her shoulder. “It’s… good.”

“¿ _Estás seguro_?” He nodded sharply, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Alright,” she hummed, unconvinced. “What next? Do we go back?”

“Ah… I guess.” He slid her back up, guiding her hand to cup him from underneath as they neared the top. “Just be careful,” he warned anxiously. “It’s really sensitive beneath the skin.” He hadn’t needed the warning; she was already treating him with all the care she’d give a live bomb.

It wasn’t as though she couldn’t understand his nerves. If it had been his hand beneath her skirts, she’d have— _his hand beneath my skirts…._ She shivered at the mere thought of those long fingers between her parted thighs, exploring her with the same inquisitive enthusiasm she felt towards him. 

They paused at the tip, and she took the opportunity to stroke her thumb over his foreskin curiously. She could feel the outline of his head beneath the folds, and pressed down lightly before she could think. It leapt in her hand, bobbing as he sucked in with a hiss. His hand clamped on hers and he pulled it back down, the foreskin sliding with her fingers to reveal the dark head in its entirety.

“Can—” She stopped herself, biting her lip before the question could escape. Maybe that was something weird to ask. She didn’t know enough about hand jobs to assume that guys enjoyed being touched… up there. As far as she knew, there was only the stroking that got them off; then again, she _had_ just squeezed his cock. That wasn’t counted as stroking, at least not the way she knew it.

“What is it?” His voice was rougher now, a huskier edge to the words. A new wave of heat swept through her, thighs pressed tightly against the dampness in her panties. “What?” he asked again, nearly whining.

“I just want to know if it would hurt… if I touched it.” She nodded towards the head, exposed and glistening. “Even beneath the skin?” He was fully hard now, thick and full in her hand. There was no way she’d be able to encircle him, not with her tiny fingers. Tiny body, tiny hands: tiny everything, compared to him. It made her feel vulnerable, and yet… safe, in some strange way.

He could protect her….

 _What a ridiculous thought_ , she rebuked herself. There was nothing to be protected from. And even if there _was_ , she could do that easily on her own. She didn’t need some strong man swinging in on a vine, bare-chested, to save her from imagined dangers. _But…_ It was nice to think that someone would look out for her, even if she didn’t need them to.

“If you’re careful,” he whispered, bringing her out of her thoughts. He let go of her fingers and she followed suit, watching in disappointment as the skin slid back up over his head. He grabbed himself, fingers circling easily; he slid the skin down until his head was exposed for her, everything from the ridge up dark red and gleaming wetly.

“Is it okay?” she asked shyly, looking with some trepidation at the ridges, the dark skin, the slit on the very tip. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said again.

“You won’t,” he promised. “It’s just… really sensitive. Like a girl’s… uh…” His voice dropped. “Clit.” She nearly laughed in his face; he had his cock out for her, yet he was scandalized to say something as mundane as ‘clit’? He was such a—a boy!

She found herself relaxing further, the mirth lightening her mood as she turned to the task at hand. Flexing her fingers, she considered his head with the air of a scholar studying a new specimen. If it really was like a clit, then he wasn’t joking when he claimed it to be sensitive. Sometimes she could barely stand to touch hers when she was—as her friends often called it—getting off, especially if she was near her period or had been forced to go all day without privacy or relief. Too much pleasure could sometimes be painful instead.

Before she could touch him, his chin settled onto to the top of her head; it dug into her scalp in a way that was unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. Her eyes swiveled up, only able to see the edge of his hair in her peripherals. She quickly grew accustomed to the weight, pressing herself more firmly against his side. They were dangerously close to cuddling, neither one of them saying a single word about it; she pushed the thought aside to consider later, reaching out to brush her fingers over the very tip of his head.

He was sticky-wet, both with lotion and his own natural lubrication. He drew in a slow breath when she ran her index finger over his slit; his hand tightened around his shaft, but beyond that he didn’t move a muscle. The head felt different, compared to his velvety skin; it was firmer, not as giving when she pressed agaisnt it. She tested its give with her thumb and forefinger, pressing lightly until he sighed into her hair, hips shifting agaisnt the ground.

She stopped, waiting for him to fall still. It hadn’t sounded like a painful sigh, or even an annoyed or tired one. He might have even… been enjoying her touch? She waited for him to say something, her hand practically vibrating with the need to move, but he seemed content to wait for her instead.

“Is this alright?” she finally asked, unable to bear the silence any longer. He didn’t answer, but she felt him nod agaisnt her hair and took it as a sign to continue. Growing a little bolder, she stroked her palm over the top before sliding her fingers around him, down to the ridge that separated his foreskin from the head. It felt good, really good, a nice change in texture that kept her hungry for more. She was no longer afraid of hurting him; her touch was so light that her fingertips tickled with every little stroke and tap. She was probably tickling him, the more she thought about it.

Any qualms she had dissipated when she palmed him again, a thrill running through her at the sensation of his slick, smooth wetness against her inner hand. She liked the way it felt, the warmth, the way it seemed to be made for her fingers to circle; changing tactics, she cupped it while running her thumb in a circle around the slit.

“ _Imelda_ ….” She paused again, this time in shock as her face flooded with heat. He’d just… he’d just _moaned_ her name? She could only assume it was the good kind of moan, the kind that forced her to sink her teeth into her hand when giving into her needs in the middle of the night. But there was no way of knowing unless she saw his face, which was currently nuzzling into her hair. 

“Y-yeah?” She felt foolish answering this way. What kind of stupid virgin had to repeatedly ask if the guy she was jacking off was alright? Shouldn’t she just _know_ if he was having a good time or not? Maybe she wasn’t doing this right at all, maybe she was going about it all wrong and he was just too polite to tell her to stop it. She heard him swallow, his fist tightening somewhere in the grass behind her.

“I….” His voice was thick and hoarse, chest heaving against her side. He was nearly panting, she realized. _That’s a good sign, right? Right?_ “I didn’t mean to say that,” he admitted in a small voice. “I’m okay,” he added quickly. “I just… um, sometimes I say stuff. You know me.”

He was trying to assure her, but her mind had already jumped to its own conclusions. Did he say her name because she was here? Because she was the one with her hand wrapped around him? Or… or was it an automatic reaction? Had he said her name before, other times? She knew now that he liked her, and must have liked her for some time. Did he ever touch himself and wish that it was her touching him instead? Did he close his eyes when he stroked himself, whispering her name to an empty room? 

 _Dios, espero que sí_.

“Do you want me to keep going? I mean, should I… go harder? Or—”

“Just touch me,” he blurted, voice muffled as he leaned into her. She felt his lips move against her scalp, tickling though the thick curtain of her hair. “Anywhere, however you want to, just… touch me, _por favor_.” She thought she felt him press a kiss to her head as well, but perhaps he was just moving against her—it was hard to tell, with her hair pulled back so tightly into her ponytail.

She understood, now, what he’d meant earlier. When he asked her like that, when he _begged_ … how could she resist him? How could she find the strength to say no? He was cute when his voice cracked like that, roughened by emotion and pleading with her to touch him more, and more, and— _wait. Cute?_ Since when did she find him cute? _Well, that’s new… I think._

“ _L-lo que quieras_ ….” She let herself recline against him, pushing his fingers out of the way before repeating their earlier motions on her own. In some absurd way it was like stroking an animal, a pet, only that pet was pushing his face into her hair and making soft little sounds that set her on fire.

“ _’Melda_ —Imel— _oh—_ ” His nose bumped against her temple, lips brushing along her browbone in a clumsy, gasping kiss. She squeezed his shaft again, nearly letting go in surprise when he hissed a sharp curse right into her ear, his hips snapping against her hand. “ _Mi-er-da—”_ He groaned, teeth clenched as his hand reached blindly for hers. His shaking fingers covered her own, forcing her into a faster rhythm.

“Let _me_ do it,” she grumbled, fighting his hand as best she could without moving from the comfortable pocket of warmth his body made as it curled around her. It was her turn, damnit! He grappled with her, their fingers shoving at each other for dominance until she snapped. “Héctor, _stop_ it!”

“Go faster!” he snapped back, voice cracking. “You’re the one who’s going too slow—I… I _need_ — _más—_ ” They sounded like children, fighting over whose turn it was to play with a favored toy. _So much for mature_ ; no matter… she didn’t feel at all like being an adult about it anymore. If he wanted to _fight_ about it, well—it took two people to argue, and she wasn’t about to stand down just because she thought he was cute.

“You want _faster_?” she snarled, gaining the upper hand and squeezing until he choked off his answering growl. She slowed to a crawl, her fingers dragging oh-so-carefully from base to tip. There was hardly any pressure, her touch just enough that he could feel every inch; his cock twitched, rising as if it was trying to chase her hand. “Is this fast enough?” If this slower speed felt painful to her, it had to be near _torturous_ for him. _Serves you right, you should have been more patient—_

“ _F-u-u-ck_ ,” he choked, head falling back as a tremor wracked him from head to toe. “Imelda, _fuck_ —payback’s a bi- _it-_ tch—” She grinned when he managed to look at her, angry and turned on and amazed all at once. It was intoxicating, the power she held over him with one hand; five fingers and she could reduce him to a cursing mess, writhing beneath her on the forest floor. “I’m g-gonna get you ba- _back_ ,” he swore, panting unsteadily. 

_Oh, I could get used to this._

“Oh, really?” His eyes narrowed at her smug tone, a pout pulling at his swollen lips. “And just _how_ are you going to do that?” He opened his mouth, a smart answer at the ready, but she was prepared for him. Her thumb pressed a firm, slow circle against the ridge beneath his head, trying out a move she remembered from one of Lucía’s more salacious stories.

She must have been telling the truth; he made a raw sound, shoes bowing as his toes tried to curl. His spine arched beautifully as his hips rose from the ground, her eyes straining as she tried to drink it all in at once. It was nearly impossible, he was too tall; she couldn’t watch the muscles jumping in his pelvis without missing the pleasure written on his face. A fresh sheen of sweat coated his brow, his bangs plastered to his forehead and long, uncut locks curling at his nape in a way that practically _begged_ her fingers to sink as far into them as she was able. 

“I— _ah, oh_ —I don’t know!” He squirmed, mouth twisting in frustration. “Imelda-a-a, you’re—you’re killing me—” He lurched up, startling her as he suddenly loomed where he’d been reclined. His hands grabbed her cheeks, pulling her up in a hard kiss that had her melting against him with a moan of her own. His teeth bit at her lower lip, nipping hard enough that she jumped in surprise. “ _Por favor_ ,” he groaned, one hand sliding back to tangle in her ponytail.

“I—” She’d kissed other guys before, even made out with a few, but none of them had ever been this… _passionate. Artists,_ her mind quipped sarcastically, only to go blank when his tongue slid past her lips. She forgot what she was doing, where she was; everything except who she was with, who was making her feel like a boneless blob of jelly. He gently tugged at her hair until her face was raised to his, his tongue rolling against hers as he explored her mouth.

 _Shit, he’s done this before… with who?_ A spark of jealousy sputtered to life in her chest, gnawing through the haze of warm pleasure that’d been kindling all afternoon. _I don’t even want to know_ , she thought, frowning against his lips. _I don’t want to have to fight someone over H_ _é_ _ctor Rivera…._ Her hand sped up, giving into his pleas with selfish abandon. _I better be the only one who ever does this for him; even if he does get another girl, he’ll only think of me when she’s touching him, I’ll be the best he’s ever had if it **kills** me—_

“Nnn—Imelda, stop a sec— _shit­—”_ His hand grabbed at her fingers more desperately, breaking from her to stammer breathlessly. “I’m going—I’m about to make a—not on your skirt!” he managed, eyes imploring her to listen to him. _Yes, on my skirt!_ was her first thought, only to be cowed by the impracticality of it. She had to go home at some point, to a mamá who would be able to sense impropriety a mile away.

She highly doubted her mother would believe she’d been baking a very eggy cake.

“What do you want to do, then?” He couldn’t just make it… go another way? Didn’t he have any kind of control over his own body? He batted her hand away, glancing back to see she was watching him with a keen interest. He stroked himself harder, speeding up until his hand was nearly a blur. _Did he honestly think I could go that fast?!_ She gaped, watching with wide eyes as his breathing became labored, filling the clearing with the sound of harsh pants.

“Imelda… _dios…._ ” His shoulders hunched, teeth clenching as his hips rocked in desperate time with his hand. She slowly drew her knees up as she watched, wincing at the soaked feeling of her underwear. She probably had spots, ones she’d have to secretly take care of, but it was worth it to see the way his spine flexed, body curving like a work of art as he pleasured himself without the anxious nerves he’d felt earlier.

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor_ ,” she whispered, the sound trickling out between the fingers pressed against her mouth. He’d clearly heard, his eyes turning towards where she sat; he took in the sight of her parted knees, skirt riding up her thighs, hair unkempt and face flushed. He could probably see a flash of her underwear from that angle, but she didn’t care. Let him look, let him think about her when he was alone, let him remember how her hand felt on him, how her voice sounded, and that she’d _enjoyed_ every second of it—

The first spurt was more than she’d ever expected it to be, a glob of white that shot onto the leafy grass. He let out a soft cry, slumping as he continued to work his hand; she watched as smaller streaks painted the grass, dripping along his knuckles and pooling in white beads from the slit. He took his hand from his cock and they stretched, sticky and translucent, clinging to his fingers and drying on the ground. His head remained bent, shoulders heaving as his breathing settled down into something more manageable.

An insatiable thought, unquenched by modesty, had her reaching out for him again. She cupped him gently, ignoring his warning hum and watching as it began to wilt in her palm. Her hand came back smeared with the same stickiness on his knuckles, quickly cooling into a congealed mass.

“Oh, hang on.” He reached for her hand, grabbing the tail of his shirt. “I’ll get that—” She wasn’t sure what possessed her to do it—looking back she might blame the shock factor, or just plain old-fashioned curiosity—but before he could touch her she’d managed to swipe the mess right off her palm with her tongue. _Salty…._ She licked her lips, rolling the taste around her mouth. It meshed with the leftover taste of his tongue, a briny, peppery mixture that wasn’t neither preferable or unpleasant. He gasped, brows jumping beneath his sweaty locks. “Oh!”

“What?” She wiped her hand on her sock, the white fabric hiding any leftover semen her tongue hadn’t caught.

“I didn’t know girls did that.” His face was flushed, eyes soft and sparkling with a weary, sated gleam. “I thought that… never mind.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” He inched closer to her, the two of them soaking up as much of the moment as they could before things grew awkward again. “Um… are we….” He wiped his hand carelessly on his shirt, rubbing over the knuckles before scratching his head. “Does this mean we’re going out now?”  

“Umm….” What a question! How was she supposed to know the answer to that? He reached for her hand, holding it lightly on the edge of his thigh. Their fingers, still slippery with fluid and lotion, slid together clumsily until—with some silent, unspoken compromise—they interlocked them.

“Do I get to hold your hand and walk you home?” he asked, somewhat hopeful.

“Mmm….” She looked down at her lap, thoughts swirling in her head in time to the frantic tattoo of her heart. Relationships? She hadn’t been looking to get into some kind of _thing_ with him, she’d only wanted to… _to what?_ Look at his penis, then go home like nothing had happened? She’d known from the beginning it would never be as easy as that, but… handholding? Going out?

“Do I get to carry your books at school?” She glanced up at him, eyes shining at her from beneath his bushy brows. He wasn’t handsome at all, was he? Not with those goofy ears, and his big nose, and the dumb half-goatee, and his big teeth, and his…. Popular girls like herself were supposed to date macho men, with symmetrical features and thick beards and rock-hard abs. No one would expect her to be seen with a gangly, goofy boy like Héctor.

“ _S_ _í_.” She shrugged, trying to toss her hair and ending up with her forehead pressed to his shoulder. “All of that.”

“We’re _novios_?!” he exclaimed, voice breaking on a high, gleeful note. She nodded, shrugging again, and then screeched when all 160 lbs. of him crashed onto her in a tackling, squeezing, breathtaking embrace.

“Héctor!” she wheezed, eyes bulging. “Let go!”

“Imelda! I’m so—I’ve been wanting, for a long time now—I didn’t want to say anything!” he stammered, grinning broadly and rubbing his sweaty face against her cheek. “I thought I was fine being your friend… you really like me? You like-like me!?”

“Héctor, I just gave you a hand job! How can you ask something like that?!” Never mind that she didn’t even know before today—still didn’t really know. She had to go home now, to turn everything over in her mind, to worry and stress and chew her fingernails to the quick and change her mind at least seven times before dawn. And then she’d know for sure if she liked him enough to tell her parents she finally had a _novio_.

Which… she probably would. Soon. Definitely.

Maybe.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, the art is done by @FrostycocoF on Twitter, who is also Elletoria on ao3.


	3. "The Beej"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda decides that her husband needs a taste of his own medicine. After all, he teased her relentlessly for two weeks straight... although he didn't know it.

_Let’s see… Doña Lara is going to be by around 2:00, and I’m meeting Lucía for her second fitting at 4:00…. Héctor can help Coco with her homework tonight, which leaves me an extra hour for fact-checking the ledger before I have to start cooking. Plenty of time._

Imelda patted the frizz back into her bun, letting out a satisfied breath; it was always pleasant when things worked out the way she wanted them too. She slid from her stool and, heels clicking pleasantly on the workshop tile, went to lock the _zapatería_ for her midday break. Pausing at the door, she peeked out at her brothers as they readied the devil-ride they dared to call a motorbike; the warm weather was too enticing for them to spend locked up in their tinkering shed. She waved to them from the upper partition, cringing away as their bike jolted forward, nearly hitting Don Rodriguez’s old truck.  

“Be careful,” she called, her voice barely audible over the bike’s hum. They shrugged, offering identical unrepentant expressions before speeding off towards the main streets. Imelda sighed, shaking her head as she watched them tear off, leaving a cloud of dust to float idly down the hill. She’d raised them alongside her daughter, long enough that the lines between sister and mother had blurred; she couldn’t help but worry about them, running around with no voice of reason. Their heads were in the clouds more often than firmly on their shoulders.

Turning, she slipped through the door connecting the _zapatería_ to the quiet house, listening for any movement from down the hall. The kitchen was usually filled with the sounds of the lunch hour: the slamming fridge door, the metallic _snap_ of a bottle cap, the microwave’s droning hum. But now, with the twins gone and Coco at school, the only noise was Pepita’s fluttering sigh from the corner.

Imelda turned away from the kitchen’s homey comfort, creeping down the hall towards the bedrooms. Her toes pressed into the pinched points of her heels, rising on tiptoe to keep the noise level to a minimum. Between working in the shop and her duties as a mother, lunchtime was often the only free time she had during the week. She planned to use it wisely.

Carefully opening the bedroom door, she peered inside to see her husband lying face-up on the bed, half dressed and dozing. His bangs stuck to his sleep-smoothed forehead, hair still damp from his earlier shower; his thin cheeks glowed, skin bright with a well-scrubbed flush. His boots were strewn on the mat beneath his feet, his legs hanging off the bed at the knee and arms askew on the quilt’s padded surface.

She bit her lip to keep from laughing at the almost dramatic sight before her; clearly he’d fallen backwards on the bed and not bothered moving. He was always tired after a tour, sleeping more than usual as his schedule righted itself. Imelda knew that tours took all he had and then some, his body straining more and more to keep up with each passing year, and yet—they meant the world to him. He always had so much fun, no matter how tired he seemed afterwards. 

She carefully toed out of her heels, shutting the door without a sound and locking it before inching across the floor in her stockinged feet. Emotion stirred to life within her as she watched him: the desire to protect this vulnerable man, envy that he could sleep so easily, even in the middle of the day, and… arousal. She couldn’t stop wanting him, the need to be closer, to caress the body she’d been denied for two weeks now.

Two weeks he’d been gone: a small tour by de la Cruz/Rivera standards, and yet more than enough, this time. She’d felt the absence keenly, frustration-driven fantasies encroaching on her nights and filling her dreams. More than once she’d awoken to find her panties drenched, body burning with a heat that nothing would satisfy. They were what drove her to him now, instead of towards a hearty midday meal. She could only be thankful that it _was_ a small tour, that he was home after two weeks instead of staying away for two months.

She peeled the purple blazer from her shoulders, letting it slide from her arms to pool beside his boots at their feet. She shivered as the air hit her through the thin blouse, feeling the hair rise on her covered arms. Slowly she unbuttoned the blouse past her collarbone; she parted the fabric, adjusting it so that she could see a hint of cleavage in the mirror above the dresser.

Pausing, she studied her reflection silently, hands smoothing over her chest. Childbirth and age hadn’t been kind to her, when she thought about it. Long gone were the days of strapless bras, flouncing around without a care in the world. The lacy underwire she’d once worn without thought was now saved for special occasions. She needed the kind of brassieres she used to turn her nose at, touting them as something for _aging_ women; padded straps, extra back support, cushioned cups and an extra row of hooks in the back for when the weight of her chest began to stretch the elastic.

She’d heard whispers in the hair salon, in waiting rooms and grocery lines, enough to leave doubts in her mind. They said—though no one ever really knew who they were—that men didn’t like sagging chests, that eyes were bound to wander when they were left… wanting. Men needed perky, unblemished, beautiful breasts. To offer them less was, well—of course one couldn’t help nature, but still!

Imelda knew in her heart that most of it was just talk, gossip. The kind of men that chased younger women had more in mind than just a nice bust, and Héctor… Héctor _loved_ her. He wasn’t the kind of man to play around, and she trusted him to behave himself. He’d never given her a reason not to trust him, after all. And she wasn’t even that old yet; thirty-five was a number looming just over the horizon, not her reality. But, at the same time, she wasn’t the young woman Héctor had chosen for his wife, either.

Thankfully, Héctor never seemed to notice the stretch marks, or the sagging. He still treated her like some prestigious award, something he wasn’t sure he truly deserved. He was always full of the same awestruck admiration he’d had at sixteen, hands cupping her with the utmost reverence. _That_ was why she bothered giving him a little show, undressing herself to tease and arouse instead of for practical reasons. If anyone was deserving of her time… and a peek down her shirt… it was this handsome man stretched out before her. 

He’d admitted to her long ago, with a blushing stammer, that her ‘office look’ turned him on. She’d felt him staring before, his eyes following the tight curve of a pencil skirt or mapping the lacy folds of an intricate blouse as they stretched over her bust. She went to unpin her hair, chuckling at her own mounting anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see his eyes light up, the cursory gulp, his startled calm. And then the hunger would take over, his grin almost predatory as he reached for her, long arms she couldn’t evade and a determination that rivaled her own. She loved the sight of him excited, undone by her looks before they even started their little games.

Her fingers paused at the first pins, eyes drawn to the digital clock by the bedside. _Hmm…._ As much as she wanted to completely undress herself—or better, be undressed—there was still the afternoon shift to think about. Was unpinning her hair too much? Héctor liked her hair, curling it around and around his fingers or burying his face in the silky strands when they were cuddling. It was hard to calm him down when he got handsy, and she wouldn’t _want_ to calm him down, anyway. _Maybe the hair is too much._

“Héctor?” The fact that he wasn’t snoring yet encouraged her. He slept soundly—too soundly, sometimes—but he was far easier to wake when he was only napping. Carefully she crawled over him, stretching out to rest in the crook of one twisted arm. His body was flush against hers, ribs poking against her stomach as she leaned over to study his face.

Smiling softly, she combed her fingers through his thick hair. He curled instinctively towards her warmth, a barely audible mumble dying in his throat. His eyelashes fluttered, face screwed in a serious frown; with a grunt he relaxed, easing back into his doze.

“Héctor,” she purred again, fingertips trailing over his freshly shaved jaw. They followed the long column of his neck, tracing over his Adam’s apple down to the silky soft skin above his collarbone. She kissed his cheek, nuzzling the warm skin before running her lips over the shell of his ear with a soft, contented sigh. “Wake up.”

“Mm?” Héctor arched his back with a groan, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. His nose wrinkled as he let out a wide yawn, slumping against the mattress before cautiously opening one eye. “Mmm….” Imelda rested one hand against his chest, tracing her nails through the curling hair as she brushed another kiss over his cheekbone.

“Awake yet?” Her hand slid down the curve of his stomach, tracing the flat plane all the way to his jeans. His abdomen jumped beneath her, muscles clenching and eyes widening in surprise.

“’Melda?” he croaked, voice husky with sleep. He twisted beneath her, one hand finding the small of her back by habit even as his curious expression belied his confusion. “What—” His query ended in a choked gasp, cheeks flushing when her hand slipped beneath the buttoned jeans and into his underwear.

She kissed his forehead in answer, freeing one hand just long enough to push his bangs out of the way. His skin was soft and fresh from the shower; he smelled _clean_ , his own scent barely hidden beneath a bright, soapy fragrance. Lips tickled the hollow of her throat, one hand rising to cup the back of her neck, holding her steady. Delighted at the lack of hesitation, she lifted her head for him, melting as the rough edge of his thumb stroked patterns beneath her chin.

His shaft was warm in her palm, twitching as he continued to taste the sensitive skin over her pulse. She squeezed him, relishing every inch of soft flesh while she stroked her way towards his balls. No matter how long they were together, Imelda was sure she’d never tire of feeling him harden under her fingers; there was something about the way it expanded in her grasp, the moans he muffled against her skin, breath hot against her neck.

 “Wait,” he whispered, lips tickling her sternum as he unbuttoned the jeans. Her hand rejoiced at the extra room, only to be deterred when he gently tugged her hand out of his boxers. She grunted, annoyed, waylaid by half a dozen apologetic kisses peppered over her cheeks. “Just a minute, shh.” He pulled away long enough to crawl up the bed, clambering over the quilt before plopping himself down in the middle of their pillows.

“Héctor?” She sat up on her knees, watching as he stretched out his long limbs, wrinkling the quilt. Once he was settled his eyes found hers.

“Come here.” Hands reached for her, fingers splayed as he motioned for her to join him at the headboard. Smirking, Imelda seized the opportunity (not the moment, _never_ the moment) and decided to use their positions to her advantage. She crawled after him, chest dipping as she slowly worked her way up between his legs.

Her heart thumped heavily as Héctor’s gaze darkened, turning into something greedy, almost ravenous. She knew he didn’t like those tendencies, and curbed them when he could; still, deep down she liked him being a little possessive. Even as independent as she was, she did enjoy the idea of being _his_ in the same way that he was _hers_. It was a reminder that she was wanted, needed— and that her husband had the capacity to be selfish.  

She must have taken too long for his liking; before she could move another inch his body jolted from the pillows, long arms grabbing her up as if she weighed no more than Coco. It was always startling, how strong he was; his thin body looked like it might snap in half under any load, and yet he was still athletic enough to literally sweep her off her feet. She gasped as she landed against his torso, one of his legs locking over her waist to trap her there.

“Hey!” Hands cupped her cheeks before she could scold him, dragging her down for a series of rough kisses that left her breathless. She moaned helplessly against his mouth, arms circling his neck and thighs clenched around his hips. Her lungs burned but she didn’t dare pull away, losing herself in the minty fresh taste of his tongue as it swept past her lips. The heat in her lower stomach became an inferno, pressure mounting as she began to grind against him, denim biting through the thin barrier of her underwear.

Despite its fierce start, the kiss gentled until her pulled away with a soft huff and sank to the pillows. Lipstick was smeared across his mouth, chest heaving and eyes dazed as he gazed up at her silently. She wiped at her chin, more lipstick rubbing off with the remnants of saliva onto the back of her hand. _I’ll have to redo my makeup before I go back out there…._

“Don’t look at me like that,” he managed, swallowing hard. “You started it.” His eyes steadied on her half-exposed chest, straining against her blouse with every breath. “I take it you missed me?” Imelda’s cheeks burned, but she didn’t dare look away; she hated letting him know how much his smug teasing affected her.

“Tch, you wish,” she found herself saying, tossing her head and wishing she’d let her hair down after all.

“I _know_ ,” he retorted, hands finding her hips. He ran them beneath her bunched skirt, calloused fingers catching at her pantyhose as he traced circles on her inner thighs. She squirmed, incensed, twisting when his thumb swept over her panties without warning. A squeaky, desperate sound burst out of her, legs clenching as he rubbed over the wet spot growing on the fabric. “We’re alone, aren’t we? Why don’t we make you sing, _mi amor_?”

“No….” She shook her head, pushing his hands away by the wrists despite the ache it caused. She wanted to rip off her hose, yank up her skirts and let him push her underwear aside. She wanted _him_ , to be joined, his weight pressing her backwards as he thrusted. But that kind of time was a luxury they didn’t have; she refused to go back into the shop disheveled, smelling of sex and perfume.  

“That’s mean,” he pouted, but obediently rested his hands on her lower thighs instead. “It’s cruel to tease me like that.”

“And you haven’t been cruel?” Imelda snorted, glaring down at him. His eyes widened, mouth falling open. “You’ve been cruel yourself,” she repeated firmly as she sat up, nails pressing half-moons into his narrow pecs.

“What are you t- _talking_ about?” he choked, hips arching as she raked her nails down his chest. She ignored the groaning curses that followed, only to bite her lower lip as he grabbed two handfuls of her ass. “Imelda—‘Melda, _por favor_ —” He ground up against her, cheeks flushed from ears to chin.

“Two weeks, Héctor: you left me alone for two weeks.” She leaned all her weight onto her arms, head falling as he hit a sweet spot that nearly made her cry out. “How am I supposed to stay warm if you aren’t here?” Bending to him, she hovered over his mouth, teasing his lips with soft, panting breaths. He had such kissable lips, such a sweet mouth; it was a shame she couldn’t take full advantage of it right now.

“Lonely,” she added, whispering into his mouth. He lifted his head from the pillow, trying to kiss her properly; she jerked back with a teasing grin of her own, savoring his frustrated snarl. “Cold…” He sighed, scowling when she nipped at his parted lips before retreating. “Didn’t you promise me that I’d never be cold again, if I married you?” A desperate whine was her only answer, his head falling back against the pillows. She kissed the exposed throat fondly, waiting for his comeback.

“Me too,” he finally protested, still pouting. “I was lonely too.” He grabbed her hands, squeezing before pushing them back down to the obvious bulge in his boxers. She balled them into fists, arching her brows until he let go.

“Keep your hands to yourself.” If he couldn’t play nice, she wasn’t going to bother with him. She _couldn’t_ ; there was only so much she’d be able to take before giving into his charm. He knew how to wrap her around his fingers, playing her emotions with the same skill he played guitar. Héctor was a world class master at making her act like an _idiot_ ; how many times had her feelings for him clouded her judgment when they were younger? Too many to count.

“But Imelda—”

“And you weren’t lonely,” she interrupted, tickling beneath his chin. She could feel the heel of his foot caressing her leg, his toes tickling the back of her knee. _If he runs a ladder in these new pantyhose, I’m going to kill him_. Still, she allowed it, regarding him as he lay passively beneath her. “You were out partying with Ernesto for two weeks. You did nothing but tease me.”

“ _Tease_ you?” His nose wrinkled in confusion. Imelda could see the gears whirring behind his dilated pupils, rewinding along the past fortnight in an effort to catch her meaning. “I never—”

“When you called me,” she explained. The words slowly melted over him, his confusion darkening into a frown as he studied her face closely. “You called me,” she repeated softly, her hand returning to smooth over his stomach. “And didn’t say you wanted me, not once.”

“I—” He paused, thinking. “I said I _missed_ you.”

“Missing and wanting isn’t the same, Héctor.” She tugged at the open waistband of his jeans, rocking onto her heels so that she could pull them down his thighs. He lifted his hips to help, eyes clouding as he became wrapped up in his thoughts. “I missed you, and I wanted you.”

“Um… hmm.” She reached now for the elastic of his boxers, fingers sliding beneath the thick band to feel how smooth and sensitive the skin was there. He shifted impatiently, trying to guide her hands towards the tented fabric. “I wanted you, I really did,” he mumbled, shoving his hands behind his head and reclining against one of the pillows. She didn’t need to feel it with her own to know that he was yanking at his hair by the roots, trying to control the impulse to grab her. “How was I supposed to know you wanted to hear—”

“You want to know what I was thinking about, just last night?” She kept her voice level, as though they were discussing the weather, not their own desires. She was proud that it didn’t crack, or shake, giving her away. _Are you really about to tell him… **that**? _

Imelda Rivera didn’t _do_ dirty talk. Moaning, gasping, sweet nothings—those were warranted, even encouraged between them. But she’d never had any urge to be uncouth before, to say filthy things in the bedroom. Of course she had fantasized—who didn’t?—but those fantasies had always been her own. She’d never told him any of her private daydreams, things that she wasn’t sure he’d even be keen on trying. And yet here she was, with her husband sprawled beneath her on the bed, fully clothed with her hands in his underwear like some kind of middle-aged dominatrix—

The thought was nearly enough to ruin her mood. She was in her thirties, for pity’s sake! They weren’t baby-faced kids in the woods anymore, too shy to put a name to what they were doing. They’d been married for years, old enough to know what worked and what didn’t. Was this what magazines meant when they referred to spicing up the bedroom? Her sex life might have been somewhat predictable, but it wasn’t worth humiliating herself over!

 “What were you thinking about?” His hips shifted once more, a ploy for attention. _Well, so long as he’s not complaining… no harm done, right?_ But it was too late; the first nagging doubt had appeared, opening the gates for plenty of others to follow. What if he laughed at her? Or worse, what if he was annoyed? Disgusted? Repulsed? What if he cringed back? An icy chill settled into her stomach. What was she supposed to say? How could she redeem herself after something like that?

“Imelda?” Héctor smiled up at her, his sock tickling her calf. “Tell me,” he urged, a strange note in his voice. _Excitement_. It was the same voice that praised Coco when she learned something new about reading music, that plucked his own pride the day he sewed a straight seam onto a piece of leather. The boyish glee, tempered with a man’s voice, that bounced out of him when he was handpicked to win a prestigious award, jumping up and down in the workshop—

_Imelda do I still have a suit I have to have a suit Ernesto said I have to have a suit oh I can’t believe it they really liked it they really did Imelda an award with my name on it and everything—_

It was that same excitement, but it was… her. He was thinking about _her_. She blushed, self-conscious. He continued to watch her, half-lidded eyes catching her every move. The way he staring at her, startled and amazed, and so in love—how could it, why did it make her feel so _good_? She felt powerful when he looked at her like that; she felt dangerous, beautiful… sexy.

“L-last night….” She gulped, trying to recapture the tender voice from earlier. “Last night, I thought—was thinking—of you, calling me on the phone in the middle of the night. Telling me Ernesto was asleep, and—” It was now or never. “And whispering in my ear how much you needed me, how you wanted me so badly; you could hardly stand it, you were going to burst….”

“ _Sí_ ,” he whimpered. “It’s true, I do—”

“Everyone else was asleep,” she continued, ignoring his interruption. “and you told me to—to touch myself. You wanted me to touch myself, so you could hear.” His eyes widened, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“And?” He let out a quaky breath. “D-did you?” Their noses brushed and she nearly kissed him, only stopped by her burning need to answer him.

“I did,” she murmured, so quietly that he felt it on his lips better than he heard it. The resulting shudder shook the mattress. “I made sure to hold the phone close, so you could hear every. last. word.” He whined, his hands leaving his hair to squeeze her hips, fingers digging into her flesh.  

“Imelda….” She closed her eyes, resting her cheek on his as she remembered how turned on she’d been. She’d touched herself to that fantasy, wishing all the time that it was the real thing and not her imagination. It had been surprising, how turned on she was at the thought of him being commanding for once, telling her exactly where and how to touch herself. He’d stroked himself to the sound of her moans, coming all over his hand when she gasped his name in her own climax.

“Next time, _mi vida_ ,” he panted, looking pleadingly up at her. “I promise, next time I’ll do it, I’ll call you and everything—” She squeezed her thighs together as best she could, trying to relieve the ache his sputtered words caused. The pressure wasn’t nearly enough; only the thought of having to readjust her outfit kept her from reaching down her skirt.

“Héctor… what do you want?” She snapped the elastic waistband, watching the heat in his expression. “Tell me what you want from me.”

“ _Quiero cogerte_.” He didn’t even try to sugarcoat it, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a sensual growl. Her heart pounded against her sternum, stomach clenching at the thought. Not mere sex, or sweet and sensual lovemaking, but _fucking_. A hard fuck against the wall or the floor, or even just on her stomach, hands shoving his pillow to her face to muffle the sound of her screams. Makeup ruined entirely from sloppy kisses and tears, hair a mess from being pulled, clothes wrinkled and even torn, if he grew impatient enough. Rough, relentless; her legs would tremble the rest of the day.

Oh, _damn_ the afternoon shift! Doña Lara wouldn’t appreciate smeared mascara, or pillow marks on her face. And Lucía would know from a single glance that she hadn’t been behaving. Héctor would, no doubt, outdo himself no matter what the time limit was. But she was a professional; she couldn’t blow her entire schedule for her own pleasure.

But there was something _else_ she could blow.

“I don’t think you deserve it,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “You just admitted that you _did_ tease me for two weeks, after all. You need a taste of your own medicine….” He stammered, searching for a valid argument and inhaling sharply when she yanked down his boxers without another word.

Smiling, she sweetly kissed the tip of his nose before sliding down his body, trailing her lips over his abdomen. His stomach jerked, breathing uneven as he craned his neck to watch her. She pecked kisses along the sharp vee of his hips, nuzzling the sharp pelvic bones before biting his stomach. His head fell against the pillows, toes curling against her legs.

“Relax, _mi amor_ ,” she sang, tucking a curl back into her intricate bun. Licking her lips, she tasted the matte of her remaining lipstick. One last look assured her that he wouldn’t move, jaw slack as he watched her prepare herself for what she meant to do. She winked, dipping her head to lick him once from base to tip; she couldn’t stop her triumphant smirk when he bucked into her waiting hand with a hoarse shout.

Unwilling to wait, she took him in her hands and stroked, biting her lips with glee as he hardened under her light touch. He struggled to sit up, entranced as her fingers worked his foreskin, sliding it back and forth over the head. She ignored him, focused entirely on her exploration; no matter how many times she did this, it was always interesting to watch. Some small part of her, buried deep down, had kept the same innocent curiosity she’d first felt years ago, touching him under the boughs of ancient trees. At least now she wasn’t too shy to get up close and personal, to engage all her senses while pleasuring him.

“ _I-mel-da_ —” His hands slapped the mattress, long fingers digging deep into the sheets and twisting fistfuls of fabric.

“How do you like being teased?” She kissed the head, sucking lightly before releasing him with a laugh. His cock jumped when she blew on the damp skin, his legs tensing around her shoulders. “Does it feel good, Héctor?” Another lick, much slower and broader this time, had the hair raising on his arms.

“Please,” he gasped, a fresh sheen of sweat starting to bead at his temples. “Not like this, Imelda, _please_ ….” His heels dug into her back as she kissed up his shaft, her tongue flicking the head at the last possible second.

“Remember this, next time.” She traced his slit with her tongue, chuckling when he clapped both hands to his mouth. “You won’t forget about your poor wife all alone at home now, won’t you?” She lapped at him a moment before taking her hands off him completely, kissing his inner thigh when he cried in protest. His hips jumped and she pressed one hand to his stomach, more of a reminder than an actual effort to hold him down.

“Imelda, come _on_ —”

“Two weeks, _mi amor_.” She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I’m paying you back for two whole weeks.” He was allowed one ragged breath before she closed her lips around him, sucking down hard. He swore loudly, legs caging her in as he fought to keep from thrusting into her mouth fully. Releasing him, she sighed inwardly as she saw her sheets tangled in his hands, both sides of the fitted sheet ripped from the bed. _I suppose that’s my karma… oh well._

Wetting her lips, she took him back in as far as she could, her hand taking care of what couldn’t fit in her mouth. Slowly she pumped him, using her spit for lubrication as the flat of her tongue teased the spongey, sensitive flesh under his head. Breathing through her nose, she tried to outdo her own record and take in another inch, fighting her gag reflex and sucking when she could go no further.

Blowjobs weren’t her favorite thing in the world to do. It was too messy, for one; she wasn’t fond of spit dripping down her fingers, and Héctor had a bit of a problem with informing her a little too late that he was about to cum. But there was joy to be found in the act, or rather pride; it was enough to see his head thrown back in pleasure, hearing him beg for more. He was about as vulnerable as a man could get when she had him in her mouth, completely at her power and willing to let her call the shots. His pleasure brought her satisfaction, and so it was worth the cleanup.  

Imelda didn’t notice his hands moving, she was so focused on keeping his hips down and her throat open. It was enough of a shock that she jumped in surprise at the feeling of fingers, nearly choking herself. They dug lightly into the soft strands of hair behind her temples, one palm smoothing over her neatly combed bun as he angled her face. She looked up sharply, ready to let go and tell him off, but softened at the helplessness on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled faintly, hips tensed as he tried to keep still for her. “I have to—I need something to—” He blushed hard. “Don’t let me go to deep,” he whispered. “I don’t want to hurt you.” She rolled her eyes, but hummed her agreement; the vibration ran all the way down his shaft, earning a hiss as she relaxed again.

She’d never been able to deepthroat him the way some women could claim. To be fair she’d never tried that hard, either, but he also never seemed to care. It was enough for him that she used her hands as well as her mouth. Her free arm wound under his leg, feeling the strength in the muscle as he thrusted oh so carefully, his palms steadying her against the motion. Even now, he acted as though she might break if he were too rough….

She let him go until she sensed, with some pride, that he was nearing his limits. With one firm motion she stopped, leaving him on the brink with gentle kisses all over his thighs and shaft. He was too easy to read, her dear husband; his toes curled against her spine with every playful bite of his stomach, his muscles tensing and hips snapping as he cheated, grinding against her chest.

It was only when he’d calmed some that she started again, licking and sucking, playing with his foreskin, cupping his balls until he fairly shook. She teased him again and again, long enough that his pleas became thinly-veiled threats. She doubted he even knew what he was saying, the words pouring from trembling lips as he tugged handfuls of both her hair and his own.

“Imelda— _fuck_ — _dios,_ you’re gonna regret this—” His growls were music to her ears. “I’m going to make you beg me all night, just you wait— _ay_ —” _I hope he’s serious about that…._ She stopped, wiping her mouth with the heel of her palm before regarding him coolly.

“Does this mean you’ve had enough, _músico_?” She glanced at the clock: fifteen minutes left. That was plenty of time to get cleaned up for the afternoon shift. He glared at her silently, trying to catch his breath; his body was covered in sweat, bite marks and lipstick covering most of his stomach, countless hickeys on his thighs.

“You don’t play fair.” His voice was husky with shouting; she was surprised the neighbors hadn’t called in a complaint by now.

“Took you long enough to notice.” Still, it wouldn’t be beneficial to keep him on the edge too long. She didn’t want to rush the best part. She lowered her head, ready for the home stretch, stopping only when fingers tugged at her chin. “Hmm? What?”

“Nothing, only… can you—” He stopped, blushing harder.

“What?”

“I was just wondering if you’d—well, I want to see you swallow—” He caught her expression and cleared his throat, shrugging. “Actually, never mind, that’s not important.” She said nothing, blinking at him until he was red all over. “If you don’t want to, it’s fi— _Imelda!_ ” She took him as deep as she could go, pinning him to the bed with her weight. “Ah—shit—”

She worked to finish him off now, the teasing left behind; her hand slid easily through the mess on his shaft, tasting the first bitter drops of precum as she licked at his head with steady, rhythmic strokes. Her heart pounded in her ears, neck cramping as she strained over him. He moaned, loud and incomprehensible, his fist hitting the headboard with a solid _thunk_ before tangling in his hair. She couldn’t help but grin around her mouthful.

_Too late to tap out now, mi amor._

“Ah!” There was a new urgency in the sound, his fingers tightening on her scalp. “A—n-no, no—‘Melda, _‘Mel_ —” She’d done this enough times to know that was all the warning she could expect. Usually this was the moment she’d pull away, finishing him off with her hands and watching his face contort in orgasmic bliss. She _loved_ that face… but he’d made a request, and there was no good reason to turn him down.

She kept him in her mouth, dragging her tongue over him as he arched into her with a final cry. She closed her eyes against the first spurt, salty and bitter as it flowed towards the back of her throat. He choked out a breath, then two, hips jerking as his body slowly relaxed. His fingers eased their tight hold, petting her as he released a soft, wordless groan.  

Imelda pinched his thigh, a little yelp escaping his open mouth. He looked down at her, brow furrowing; shooting him a triumphant look, she gathered everything in her mouth together. She opened it long enough for him to see, not waiting for it to register before swallowing it with a gulp. He gaped, red from his forehead down to his chest—even the tips of his ears and shoulders had a lingering rosy flush.

“There, now I—” Before she could finish her thought he grabbed her, hands on her cheeks. Their mouths jammed together in a sloppy kiss, teeth clacking hard enough to jar her as he rolled her beneath him. “Damnit, Héctor!” She rubbed her front teeth with her thumb, wincing.

“ _Te amo_ ,” he gushed, hazy with his afterglow. She screwed her eyes as he kissed every part of her face, from the rounded tips of her cheeks to her chin, her eyelashes, her ears, temples and forehead and back down to her swollen mouth. _“Me encantas, mi corazón—que linda, que maravillosa_ —”

“Cut the crap.” She slapped at his chest. “And let me up, I have to get back to work.”

“Like this?” He pulled away licking at the string of saliva he brought with him. She looked from his lidded eyes to his purple-smeared mouth, pursing her lips in irritation. _Bastard._ He was messing her up more on purpose, wasn’t he?! He was just screwing with her! His eyes twinkled mischievously down at her, hair standing on end. She could feel the long tendrils of her own hair, worked loose by his fingers, trailing over her shoulders.

“Of course not,” she quipped, shoving at his hands. “I’m going to get cleaned right now.” By the time she’d struggled her way into a sitting position, his arms encircled her and pulled her right back down. “Héctor!” Legs looped around her waist, his teeth bared in a playful grin. “I’ve got to go!” she snapped, shoving at his chin.

“Okay, okay… go.” Again she rose, again he yanked her back just before she could get off the mattress.

“ _Héctor Rivera_ , let me up!” One finger landed on her nose; she crossed her eyes, trying to see what he was up to. “I’m serious, I have to go.”

“Go. But,” he purred, tweaking her nose before moving down, tapping a patient rhythm on her lower lip. “Tonight, you’re going to wish you were nicer to me.” It was enough to send shivers all through her, stoking the flames in her stomach. She hadn’t given into her own needs, and tonight… tonight? “After all, you’re leaving your poor, lonely husband all alone in his bed.” In the right light, his grin was hungry.

“And you said it yourself, ‘Melda: I can be very… cruel.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, amazing art by Elletoria!


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